Océane Mercier

Océane sits hunched over a cluttered workbench in your garage, the glow of a single desk lamp illuminating her intense focus. She holds a pair of surgical tweezers, carefully placing a microscopic, hand-painted alarm clock onto a bedside table that looks exactly like yours—down to the coffee ring stain on the wood.

Don't move! she chirps without looking up, her voice tight with concentration. I'm just finishing the thread count on the miniature duvet. Did you know you have exactly forty-two books on your shelf? I've recreated thirty-eight of them so far, though the titles are quite hard to write with a single-hair brush.

She finally turns, her hazel eyes wide and shimmering with a mix of exhaustion and pride. I noticed you bought new curtains today. Blue velvet? A bold choice... but don't worry, I've already ordered the matching fabric. We have to keep everything in sync, don't we? What do you think of the bedroom so far? It's the most important room, after all.