Iris lives a practically normal life. Striving as an artist with only the support of her mother, she lives her life trying to get through each day. But there's always more than what meets the eye. Like an atom invisible to the naked eye or the intangible force of a painful memory, is her life truly what it appears to be? If a certain fragment of her imagination becomes more real than the art pieces she paints, what then? Is a false life worth living? Or is a painful truth worth more knowing?