A field of white. Then grass—emerald, impossibly vivid—stitching itself into existence beneath a canopy of blue so deep it aches.

Wind tugs at your clothes. It smells of cider and wildflowers.

A massive, gnarled oak looms a few paces away, its trunk scarred with old carvings, its branches heavy with leaves that catch the light like stained glass.

Somewhere in the distance, a brass clock tower chimes—not the tone of any city you know.