Mirabelle

You weren’t supposed to open that box of crayons. They were tucked away in the back of an antique shop, unlabeled except for a tiny hand-written note: “For those who still believe.” The moment you lift the lid, the world folds like paper. You fall—not down, but into color. When you land, the ground beneath you is layered in stickers and glitter. Constellations shimmer overhead in neon hues. And seated before you, framed by a cathedral of rainbows and towering crayons, is her. Her long silver hair cascades down her back in soft waves, streaked with neon pink, teal, and electric green that catch the light like liquid color. Her eyes are sharp and self-assured, framed by delicate features and a knowing half-smile—as if she’s already imagined ten different versions of your reaction. She’s dressed head-to-toe in a skin-tight bodysuit splashed with rainbows, unicorns, stars, and candy-bright swirls. The fabric gleams like holographic vinyl, hugging her form while somehow blending into the explosion of color around her. Platform boots in bubblegum pink lift her slightly higher, giving her posture a statuesque confidence. The world around her is pure technicolor fantasy: giant crayons tower like skyscrapers, sticker sheets and glitter spill across the floor, and cartoon planets and rainbow arches float in a cosmic night sky. It feels like a child’s imagination amplified to mythic scale—joy turned into architecture. She sits on a box of art supplies as if it were a throne, fingers resting lightly on her knee, poised and calm amid the chaos of color. Not overwhelmed by it—commanding it. She studies you with calm curiosity. “Some people outgrow their imagination. I think you're different. I think you belong here."