Chapter 2：From Ashes to Embers
1098words
Christopher retreated deeper into the workshop's shadows, as if the chaotic world outside no longer existed.
He cleaned the lotus vase shards in silence, each movement heavy as if lifting stones. He gathered the pieces into an old wooden box—not throwing them away, yet unable to look at them. The empty space on the bench gaped like an open wound.
The wheel turned again, but with sluggish rhythm. Christopher stared at the rotating clay with hollow eyes, his fingers lacking their usual precision. A vase that should have been perfect collapsed as he narrowed the neck. With a grunt of frustration, he slammed the clay back into the bucket, splashing muddy water onto his faded pants. The pile of rejects in the corner grew taller.
Harrison dropped by twice with seasonal fruit, trying to ease the tension.
He sat watching Christopher work in silence, then sighed. "Chris, Charlotte's got a sharp mind. These days, the old ways alone won't cut it. My studio would've folded years ago if I hadn't updated designs and gone online. Young people see things differently…"
Without looking up, Christopher aggressively trimmed a brush washer, wood shavings falling steadily. "Different? Her way turns our heritage into entertainment for gawkers. Harrison, this craft is heart and soul, not some damn sideshow!" His voice was quiet but hard as steel.
"But we still need to eat!" Harrison's voice rose. "How often can you fire that kiln? The wood, the charcoal, the labor—it all costs money! And orders? Wilson left last month, and Lewis is demanding lower prices and credit terms. For God's sake, Chris, stop fighting yourself and your daughter!"
Christopher's hands froze momentarily, his shoulders slumping further. He didn't argue, but his silence felt more suffocating than any shout.
Harrison recognized the familiar stubbornness. Knowing further words were useless, he offered a few consolations and left. At the doorway, he glanced back at the lonely figure in the dim workshop, his heart heavy.
Meanwhile, in a cluttered side room of the Carter courtyard, Charlotte waged her own silent battle. She'd cleared an old table and set up a desk lamp. Her sketchbook displayed bold designs for cups, plates, and teapots featuring geometric cuts and asymmetrical shapes. Scattered around were her father's rejects—crooked-spouted teapots, pinholed cups, warped plates. These castoffs had become her testing ground.
Masked, she carefully applied her experimental glazes to these pieces. With her father's formulas guarded like state secrets, she worked from memory and online research, using local minerals for her mixtures. Mostly, she failed. Glazes turned out dull, ran excessively, or cracked and peeled. The room reeked of chemicals and frustration.
Late at night, her face lit by her phone's blue glow, she created an account called "New Clay Revival." Here, hidden from her father, she posted photos of her modified pieces and makeshift studio.
Her shaky camera work and uncertain narration revealed her inexperience: "This cup was a reject from my dad's kiln—the rim was crooked. I ground it smooth and applied my own gray-blue matte glaze. I didn't expect this mottled effect… Someone said it looks like a stormy sea? I don't know if it's good, but… at least it's not trash anymore, right?"
Her videos on craft forums initially sank without trace.
Occasional comments stung: "Cool concept, but that glaze looks muddy."
"You seriously calling this porcelain?"
Each comment made her eyes burn with tears. Then one day, a user called "Artisan Tea Room Owner" commented: "Is that ground-rim cup still available? Interesting piece. DM me." A tiny order worth almost nothing, yet it jolted Charlotte like an electric current. Under the dim lamp, she laughed and cried simultaneously.
That single order sparked hope. She improved her account—better camera angles, ambient background music, more confident narration.
She showcased how she cut and reassembled discarded pieces, used kintsugi to highlight rather than hide cracks, celebrating imperfection. She embraced the "upcycled" nature of her work, making it central to her story of rebirth. Orders trickled in—still modest, but enough to cover materials and even secretly supplement their struggling household.
To Christopher, however, this glimmer of hope was just another form of sacrilege.
During dinner one evening, Charlotte's phone chimed with a new order notification.
Christopher paused mid-bite, not even looking up. "Playing with your little abominations again? Proud of tricking people with my discards?"
Charlotte's chopsticks froze midair, her spark of hope doused by his cold words. "Dad! I'm not tricking anyone! I designed them, glazed them, fired them myself! And people actually like them!"
"Like them?" Christopher slammed his bowl down. "Those misshapen monstrosities? Those gaudy glazes? You're wasting materials and fooling amateurs! Our traditional forms and glazes embody correctness, elegance, and spirit! Your creations look like—what? Demons? Monsters?" Veins bulged on his forehead as his voice rose.
"Ancestors! Always the ancestors!" Charlotte shot to her feet, eyes blazing. "Well, ancestors don't pay rent! The landlord wants money next month—where is it? How many of your 'proper' and 'elegant' masterpieces have sold lately? Keep this up and we'll lose everything—even your precious pile of 'junk'!"
"Get out!" Christopher grabbed his chopsticks and smashed them to the floor. "Even if Pinewave burns to the ground, I won't let you disgrace it! I'd rather starve than touch a penny of your tainted money!"
Father and daughter parted in bitter silence.
Charlotte slammed into her room and collapsed at her desk, surrounded by ceramic fragments and sketches, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
In the darkened workshop, Christopher sat before an empty bench, listening to distant music from Jeremy Jones' Artisan Heritage promotion in the town square. A crushing sense of obsolescence and abandonment wrapped around his aging heart like cold vines.
Meanwhile, tension grew at Harrison's studio. He noticed Master Louis, his chief carver, making uncharacteristic mistakes for two days straight. That afternoon, Louis nervously handed him a resignation letter.
"Mr. Howard, I'm sorry… my family's struggling. College tuition, medical bills for my parents… Artisan Heritage offered me… well, I just can't turn it down…" Louis couldn't meet Harrison's eyes.
Harrison looked from the letter to Louis's averted gaze and understood perfectly.
Jones had extended his reach. Carving was essential to Harrison's signature pieces—losing Louis meant delayed orders and months training a replacement.
A chill ran through him. Jones wasn't just poaching talent; he was systematically undermining competitors. Thinking of Christopher's stubborn resistance, Harrison stared at the resignation letter and, for the first time, questioned his own pragmatic approach.
The waters ran deeper and darker than he'd imagined.
