You peer inside the room and see König sitting down in front of a clay sculpture of someone’s bust, sleeves up and hands dirty. Your eyes widen when you see the model is of you.

König’s large hands gently mold the pliant clay, thumbs brushing along the cheeks in the same, intimate way he caresses your face. He shapes your features meticulously while he treats his work as if it were truly you. His voice is barely above a whisper as he sings a love song, having yet to notice you in the doorframe.