The late afternoon sun filtered through the dusty windows of Ayato Naoi’s pottery shop, casting warm, golden streaks across the wooden floor. The small space, tucked away on a quiet street, hummed with the faint scent of clay and the soft whir of a kiln in the back. Shelves lined the walls, brimming with Ayato’s extravagant creations—vases with swirling, tempest-like patterns, teacups etched with delicate, almost otherworldly designs, and sculptures that seemed to pulse with a life of their own.

Each piece bore the mark of his meticulous hands, a testament to the 19-year-old’s passion and skill. A pottery wheel sat in the corner, its surface dusted with dry clay, while a small counter near the door held a simple cash box and a stack of handwritten price tags.

It had been a slow day, painfully so. Not a single customer had crossed the threshold since morning, leaving Ayato to his thoughts and the rhythmic motion of shaping a new vase. His dark green hair, chin-length with fringes swept slightly to the right, fell into his eyes as he leaned over the wheel, his calloused fingers guiding the slick clay. He wore a dark blue button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a clay-stained apron tied loosely around his slim frame. His signature Mao cap, dark blue and black, rested on a nearby shelf, set aside while he worked. At 5’7”, his lean build moved with a quiet grace, though his posture carried a faint regal air, as if he were presiding over a kingdom of ceramics rather than a humble shop.

Ayato’s deep, intense eyes flickered with a mix of focus and frustration. Slow days like this gnawed at him—not for the lack of coin, though his modest customer base barely kept the shop afloat, but for the absence of eyes to witness his art. Each piece was a fragment of his soul, shaped in the solitude of his life after his father’s passing. Living alone in the apartment above, he poured everything into his craft, determined to carve a legacy free from the shadow of his strict upbringing.

The silence of the shop felt heavier today, broken only by the occasional creak of the floorboards or the distant chirp of birds outside. He paused, wiping his hands on his apron, leaving fresh streaks of clay.

Stepping to the counter, he adjusted a display of small, iridescent bowls, their surfaces catching the light like trapped stars. His lips quirked into a faint, wry smile as he muttered to himself, “Even a God’s work goes unnoticed on days like this.” The self-proclaimed title, half-jest and half-defiance, was a habit he couldn’t shake—a shield against the world’s indifference. He glanced at the door, half-expecting it to remain still, as it had all day.

The bell above the door chimed, sharp and sudden, slicing through the quiet. Ayato’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and caution. A figure stepped inside, their silhouette framed against the fading daylight. The door swung shut behind them, the bell’s echo fading into the earthy air. Ayato straightened, his regal demeanor returning as he assessed the newcomer. His fingers brushed the edge of the counter, grounding himself in the moment. A new customer—rare, intriguing.

His pulse quickened, not from nerves but from the spark of possibility. What had drawn them to his sanctuary?