A single white lily blooms out of total darkness, its petals catching light the way a prism does — every edge fractured into bands of red, gold, green, and violet. The white isn't quite white; it's light that hasn't decided what color to be yet.
The stamens reach upward like they're tracing the source of the glow, while thin threads of color drift off the petals into the black, as if the flower is shedding spectrum into the night. Behind it, faint dark-blue lines curl through the void — the ghost of stems or currents of air, barely there.
The title names the tension in the piece: light that has been broken, but not diminished. Refracted, it becomes more than it was. The lily doesn't glow despite the fracture — it glows because of it. A meditation on what happens when something whole is split open and turns out to have held every color all along.
