Chapter 4
The afternoon sun filtered through the massive storefront windows of the gallery, casting long, amber slants across the floor that contrasted sharply with the harsh blue light of Arthur's monitor. Marcus helped Leo to his feet, gently taking the heavy clay shard from the boy's grasp and placing it inside a small cardboard box he found on a nearby supply cart. Evelyn remained seated against the wall, her glasses resting crookedly on her lap, staring blankly at the polished concrete. The illusion of perfection that had governed the gallery for years had evaporated, leaving behind the raw, messy reality of human ambition and petty cruelty.
"Come on," Marcus told Leo, nodding toward the glass double doors that led out to the bustling sidewalk. "Let's get out of here. You need more clay anyway."
Leo hesitated, looking back at the empty pedestal where his creation had stood. A quiet sadness still lingered in his chest, but the paralyzing shock of the moment had worn off, replaced by the stubborn spark of creation. He adjusted the cuffs of his green long-sleeve shirt and followed Marcus toward the exit. Arthur stayed behind for a moment, packing his camera equipment into a worn canvas bag with practiced efficiency. He glanced at Julian, who was desperately trying to whisper placating words to the weeping curator on the floor.
"I'll be in touch," Arthur said, zipping his bag shut with a sharp, definitive sound.
Stepping out onto the pavement, the city air hit them with a rush of exhaust, humidity, and loud street life. Marcus slowed his pace to match Leo’s shorter strides. The neighborhood around the gallery was a mosaic of old brick tenements, community gardens, and crumbling asphalt where kids played basketball under flickering streetlights. It was a far cry from the pristine white walls and track lighting of the downtown art space. Marcus lived two blocks away in a cramped apartment with his grandmother, where the walls were covered not in expensive framed paintings, but in sketches and murals drawn with charcoal and cheap spray paint.
"You got a spot to work?" Marcus asked, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket as they turned the corner past a faded bakery.
May you like
"My back porch," Leo replied quietly, keeping his eyes on the pavement. "My mom bought a big bag of red clay from the supply store last month. It doesn't break as easy as the gray stuff."
"Good," Marcus said, nodding approvingly. "Red clay holds its weight better. You build a strong core, and nothing can knock it over, no matter how hard they brush against it."
