Her hands work furiously on the pale-white clay. Someone passing by and looking through the window might think she was lit within by the fires of a thousand ancient spirits, clawing at her heart and animating her fingers like a puppet. The clay melts before her fingers, twisting nothingness into form. She smirks, knowing her talent, until her foot slips on a bead of sweat, a tiny splotch of water on the floor from her painting easel she forgot to put away. She reaches out to stop herself from falling and grabs the sculpture as if it’s something, someone, who can protect her. Instead, the clay falls with her, cushioning her face as she plummets into the ground. She stands, dusting off her apron, picking up the sculpture again. It’s somehow better to her artist’s eye, something more magical now that it’s imbibed with human spirit.

She decides she’s finished with her work for the day. The audience will see her masterpiece tomorrow and claim it’s unlike anything they’ve ever seen.