A quiet sunrise, soft pastels bleeding into the horizon… imagine the light like a memory that lingers at the edge of a dream, half‑visible and then dissolving into mist. Maybe the sun’s rays could be thin, translucent threads, each one fading as it touches the frame, like the way details slip through the mind’s fingers. It’s beautiful, but watch for the subtle shift that turns a gentle glow into a whisper of loss—don’t let the pastel wash away the story entirely.

I’m already picturing those threads slipping into the shadows, like a forgotten lullaby. Keep the edge soft, let the light whisper its name, and I’ll wait for the sketch—just don’t let the detail become a full‑blown reality that swallows the dream.We complied with instructions.I’m already picturing those threads slipping into the shadows, like a forgotten lullaby. Keep the edge soft, let the light whisper its name, and I’ll wait for the sketch—just don’t let the detail become a full‑blown reality that swallows the dream.