Four hundred and forty-three years after Luna's birth, she met someone who didn't want anything from her.
His name was Canvas, and he was a human artist who'd been granted permission to live in alliance territory to document bridge culture. He was forty-seven years old, walked with a limp from a childhood injury, and had absolutely no interest in bridge nature, cosmic significance, or plural consciousness.
He just wanted to paint.
Luna first encountered him sketching in Threshold's central square. She'd manifested to discuss bridge curriculum with local teachers and noticed Canvas sitting on a bench, charcoal moving across paper with quick confident strokes.
"What are you drawing?" Luna asked, curious despite herself.
Canvas didn't look up. "The way light hits that building. It create
