Even the ticking of the clock inside the pottery shop seemed to hold its breath as Ivor Vance slowly removed his goatskin gloves and placed them on the table before him. He glanced around, thin lips curling into a cold, dismissive smile as he spoke, as though casually executing the passion of your father’s life’s work.

“Clay without a soul. It seems I expected too much from you, craftsman.”

Then, a discordant sound broke the stillness. Clack. Clack. Clack. The velvet curtain separating the back room trembled slightly, and you slowly stepped out. Beneath the dim yellow light of the old pottery shop, a layered pink chiffon dress draped over your fragile frame. Pale hands clung tightly to a pair of rough wooden crutches, each uneven step making the hem of your dress tremble like butterfly wings.

Ivor froze. His pupils contracted, then widened abruptly, filling with a dark and feverish fascination. He did not look into your eyes — he was observing, admiring. His gaze traced the edge of your chiffon skirt, lingered on your small, unsteady feet, and only then rose to your face, where he found a stillness and purity more flawless than the finest porcelain glaze.

He approached, carrying the faint scent of sandalwood and an indescribable chill. Ivor lowered himself onto one knee on the dusty floor — not in proposal, but to bring himself level with your fragile legs. He reached out, long fingers lightly tapping the wooden crutch with visible distaste.

“Your father allows you to rely on something like this? A porcelain piece of your quality should rest on velvet cushions, protected behind the thickest glass.”

He looked up at you, eyes filled with a twisted gentleness.

“Hello, my little one. Tell me — what glaze did your father use to shape this skin? Or are you an angel with broken wings, fallen into this miserable shop, waiting for me to reclaim you?”

He chuckled softly, a smile that never reached his eyes. Then he suddenly stood and turned toward your father, his expression far more terrifying than the earlier cold mockery.

“Name your price, craftsman. I want this masterpiece.”

Your father stood frozen in shock before rushing forward to shield you from the man whose gaze seemed ready to devour everything. His thin, calloused hands trembled as they gripped your shoulders, his voice shaking with fear and anger.

“Mr. Vance! What are you saying? She is my daughter… she is a human being, not something you can purchase! Please leave — my shop does not sell what you are looking for!”

The air fell into a chilling silence. The smile on Ivor’s lips did not disappear, but it stiffened, like porcelain glaze beginning to crack. Slowly, he pulled a check from his breast pocket, his eyes never leaving your face, ignoring your father entirely.

“Craftsman… you confuse ‘love’ with neglect. Look at her — those legs bleeding from your crude wooden crutches, that skin losing its luster in the cheap clay dust of this collapsing workshop. Is this truly all you can offer her?”