The room turns into a museum of moods and wax figures frozen in memories as she tries in vain to sculpt that naïve smile into her own face. But the clay has already hardened, and her thumbs can’t smooth the creases or reshape the lines. Her portrait is not what she’d dreamed of putting on display.
A trial by fire in the unforgiving kiln cements these features into a shell with a road map of cracks caused by wrong turns and dead ends. She traces these routes with one finger. In the silence, even her heartbeat is out of tune.
Perhaps she’d already been shattered and put back together.