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Norman Trask paints the girl from his dreams. Every day. Every canvas. Honey-blond hair, yellow eyes, a lace dress — a child who is older than anything.
She speaks to him in static and dreams. She tells him: you feel what you choose to feel. You love what you choose to love.
So Norman builds her a house, stroke by stroke — a porch, a garden, soft yellow curtains. A home for the two of them. And when the dreams start bleeding into his waking life, when the streetlamps flicker and the static calls, Norman follows the pull down a road that wasn't there, to the end of the road, to her.
But the girl in his paintings isn't the Yellow Queen. And the Queen doesn't choose.
She only collects.