A liminal space in front of Peach’s Castle from Super Mario 64, where the familiar world feels unnervingly quiet and empty. The castle stands tall in the distance, its bright and colorful exterior contrasting with the vast, lifeless lawn that stretches endlessly before it. The lush green grass is too still, the bright blue sky above too perfect, creating an uncanny feeling that something is missing. The landscape feels strangely artificial, as if frozen in time—perfectly symmetrical but devoid of life. There are no characters, no sound, only the occasional soft breeze that barely rustles the trees. The iconic wooden bridges and pathways leading to the castle are intact but deserted, their surfaces clean and untouched, creating an eerie sense of abandonment. A soft mist lingers around the base of the castle, distorting the view, making it seem distant yet close at the same time. The space feels neither welcoming nor hostile, just a waiting place, caught in an endless loop, as if reality itself is suspended. It’s a world familiar yet alien—where the boundary between the game’s vibrant universe and a forgotten dream blurs