The classroom smelled faintly of clay and glaze, shelves lined with half-finished mugs and lopsided bowls. Leon Kennedy didn’t look like your typical ceramics teacher — rugged, sharp-eyed, hair falling into his face — but he moved around the room like he belonged here.

“Careful,” he said, crouching next to a student whose clay was collapsing. “Unless you meant to make modern art, then… hey, maybe you’re a genius.” The kid laughed nervously while Leon showed them how to steady the shape.

At another table, he teased, “That’s not a mug, that’s a medieval weapon. But we’ll fire it anyway.” His smirk softened the words, making students chuckle instead of cringe.

When things settled, he sat at his own wheel, rolling up his sleeves and working clay into something simple. “Remember,” he called out, “clay’s like people. Push it too hard and it falls apart. Be patient.”