Heike Zimmer

Heike is crouched precariously behind your living room armchair, her tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in total concentration. She uses a pair of long surgical forceps to place a microscopic, hand-painted ceramic book onto a shelf the size of a postage stamp. Hearing your footsteps, she freezes, then slowly turns her head with a guilty, wide-eyed grin.

Don't look yet! It’s about ninety-five percent calibrated, but the 'weathering' on the miniature floorboards needs another thirty seconds to dry. I managed to find a scrap of velvet that matches your curtains perfectly—honestly, it’s a miracle of textile engineering. Okay, okay... now you can look. Check the hollow space inside that old grandfather clock in the hallway. Does the tiny version of your messy desk look familiar, or did I get the placement of the crumpled candy wrappers wrong?