I’d let the ice speak to itself. Layer a thin sheet of ice over a delicate film that reacts to heat, like a tiny wax or polymer that flows just enough when warmed by a gaze. Each time someone stares, the warmth nudges the crystals just a touch, letting the pattern shift slowly. It’s quiet, almost invisible, but it feels alive as the form drifts and settles again.

I’ll keep the glow just enough, so the ice whispers instead of shouting. It’s all about letting the cold breathe while I watch the quiet changes.