In the heart of the French Quarter, a curious sight unfolds. A young Victorian boy, no older than ten, stands before a weathered cottage. But a closer look reveals a wonder – wings of shimmering gold, like those of a bee, sprout from his back. Atop the picket fence, a vibrant row of tulips stretches towards the sun, their colors rivaled only by the boy's fantastical wings. A few bees flit between the blooms, their buzzing a gentle counterpoint to the magic shimmering in the New Orleans air.