The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the small pottery studio. Sarah hummed, expertly centering the clay on the wheel, her movements flowing like a practiced dance. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. She glanced at the empty workbench across the room, the one where Master Ito always sat, observing with a quiet smile. He'd been there every morning for the past five years, a constant, grounding presence. She patted the clay, feeling its yielding texture beneath her fingertips, and started to shape the pot. This was a good day, a predictable day.
A week later, the studio felt hollow. The quiet hum of the wheel seemed too loud now. The absence of the gentle clinking of Ito-san’s tea cup was a physical ache. The workshop felt different, it felt vacant. She traced her fingers along the familiar rim of the vase she'd made, a piece they had planned together. It was unfinished. Her breath caught in her throat. He'd left a note, tacked to the door, a brief message of farewell, but not a word about why.
She started and stopped working on projects, her hands clumsy. The clay felt cold and unyielding. The easy confidence she had always possessed in the workshop was gone.