Enshrouded, wrapped in layers that bend light and obscure form, there is something waiting to to emerge. Incubation, transmutation. It begins as a pulsing red heart, bleeding into open hands. Soon, skin stretches across a vertebra, recoiling against the darkness it was once accustomed to. Fear dissolves in the light, however, and she is born. Fingers gouge through the cocoon, tearing as blood seeps, and steam disperses into open air. Layers slide off her skin—not one, but many—and soon she is free. Though she may not yet see the stars, deep inside this womb of becoming, she is not alone, and she has what she needs: a heart and a body reclaimed.