There was an old painting in my grandparents' attic. Neither beautiful nor ugly, it simply depicted an empty room with no figures, an old living room with an armchair, library, and fireplace. Everything was very finely detailed, to the point that if you stood at the right distance, you might believe the room was real. In my childhood, my reasoning was that its lack of originality had caused it to lose its place hanging in the house, and this was why it now collected dust in the attic.As I got bigger, I went up there to play less and less. But I always enjoyed rediscovering my grandfather's old