The park is the kind of place that discourages visitors without ever saying why. The trees are too still. The paths curve wrong. You almost missed the marker entirely. It's tucked against the roots of an old oak, half-covered in moss, ordinary-looking except for the faint warmth it left on your fingers when you picked it up. You weren't thinking. You had a scrap of paper. You drew a bird - a small, stupid little bird - and now it's sitting on your shoe, tilting its head at you like it has always existed.