“The workshop,” as the professor called it, was really just his garage. But unlike the chaotic, art-choked house Jack had stepped through earlier, this space was pristine. Tools hung in precise rows. Supplies were stored in labeled drawers. The air smelled of varnish and steel.

  The professor changed as he entered. His shoulders straightened. His movements grew sharper. It was as if stepping into this place made him younger somehow.

  Jack followed cautiously inside.

  “Very well,” the professor said, clapping his hands once. “Before I can teach you anything, I need to understand what kind of artist you are. Mind doing a few quick exercises?”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. He’d expected a hands-on lesson right away. After all, he only had one day in Providence. Still, he nodded. “S-sure.”

  “Good. Here.” The professor gestured to a covered object on the table. With a small flourish, he pulled back the cloth to reveal a sculpture. “Take a look. What do you see?”

  Jack hesitated. He wasn’t the kind of guy who went to galleries on weekends.

  Marie lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, watching. The professor was watching, too.

  He sighed and stepped closer.

  It was a sculpture of a woman carved from pale stone laced with veins of gray. Hands on her hips. Feet planted. Chin raised. Her eyes seemed fixed on something far away. Despite the rough patches of unfinished stone along her legs and back, she stood with presence.

  “Uh… it’s granite, I think. And… it’s unfinished.”

  “Good,” the professor said with a nod. “What else?”

  Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I feel confident looking at it, somehow.”

  The professor smiled. “Excellent. Let’s go to the next exercise.”

  Jack blinked. “Wait, that’s it?”

  “That’s a better answer than you think. Come. Follow me.”

  The old man turned and strode toward the far corner of the workshop. He led Jack to a squat machine bolted to the floor—a wide circular platform with a foot pedal and a low stool nearby.

  It took Jack a second to recognize it.

  “A potter’s wheel?” he asked, tilting his head.

  “Yes!” the professor said, beaming.

  “You’re a potter too?”

  “I dabble. Come, make us something. There’s some clay on that box over there.”

  Jack hesitated. “But I’ve never done it in real life.”

  “If you can do it in the game, you can do it in real life. The simulation’s that good.”

  Jack frowned slightly. He wasn’t so sure it was that simple. “What should I make?”

  “Whatever you want,” the professor said. “I just want to see you work.”

  Still unsure, Jack stepped toward the box. He lifted the lid and peeked inside—stoneware clay. He let out a breath of relief. At least it wasn’t porcelain. He had no real-world experience with porcrlain, but he’d worked with stoneware plenty.

  He pulled out a hunk and held it in his hands. It felt exactly right—cool, moist, with just enough grit. Just like in New Earth.

  He began wedging it, pressing it into itself to work out the air pockets while studying the potter’s wheel. Despite its modern finish—some metal parts replacing the usual wood—it was familiar. The core design hadn’t changed.

  Jack sat down and gave the pedal a tentative kick.

  The wheel spun. Jack centered the clay and shaped a simple vase, letting instinct guide his hands. The wheel hummed beneath him, steady and responsive.

  He glanced toward the professor and Marie, who watched respectfully. It wasn’t his first time working under watchful eyes—he’d gotten used to that in the Pottery Association. Everyone on his team had seen him work, too. But this was different.

  This was real.

  For a moment, he just felt the clay. He worked idly, stretching it, flattening it. Before realizing it, he’d shifted into something more complex—an amphora. His hands moved with care, drawing out the shape.

  Pull the neck. Widen the belly. Flare the rim.

  He’d never thrown this shape before. But the wheel was working for him. The curves came naturally. With a single motion, elegant arches formed across the piece.

  When he finally lifted his fingers, the amphora stood there—elegant and balanced.

  Jack blinked at the finished piece. A grin tugged at his face.

  I can actually make pots.

  No success chime. No floating progress bar. No fade-to-inventory. Just damp hands and the steady spin of the wheel.

  He hadn’t just played as a potter. He was one.

  He’d told his parents the game would help him learn real-world skills. He’d been dreading next Friday when he was supposed to help his father on the job. But after this, he wasn’t so worried anymore.

  Looking around, he asked, “Can I have a string, please?”

  The professor stepped forward but didn’t answer right away. He studied the amphora, then looked at Jack. His expression was unreadable—until his eyes softened just slightly.

  “No need,” he said. “Go wash your hands at the basin over there. I’ve seen everything I need.”

  “Yeah?”

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  “Go ahead.”

  Jack stood and cleaned his hands in the basin’s cold water. Then he dried off and returned to where the professor stood, arms folded, waiting.

  “So?” Jack asked quietly. “Was that okay?”

  “You did well,” the professor said, nodding. “But let me ask you this—what was your process?”

  “My process?”

  “Yes. I saw you thinking while you were wedging the clay. What was going through your mind?”

  Jack shrugged. “I was just figuring out how the wheel worked.”

  “And the shape? The decision to make that specific form—where did it come from?”

  “Uh… I didn’t really think it through. I just did it.”

  The professor’s smile turned thoughtful. “I see. Let’s walk back to the kitchen.”

  Jack frowned. “I thought we were going to start carving?”

  “We will,” the professor said, already turning toward the door. “But there’s something we need to talk about first. The practical part of your training begins after lunch.”

  “After lunch?” Jack echoed. That gave him… what? Another three hours to wait?

  They walked side by side through the hallway, the lingering smell of sawdust and clay giving way to the warmer scent of roasted coffee. Jack still had traces of clay under his fingernails, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  He kept replaying the professor's questions in his head. Why did it matter what I was thinking? He had no idea what the professor had been watching for. And frankly, he wasn’t thrilled about a theory lesson. If this was how it was going to go, he could’ve just video-called and saved himself the trip to Providence.

  As they entered the kitchen, he glanced at Marie.

  She seemed like she was having fun.

  For a moment, he wondered if she’d been through the same routine. Maybe this was how the professor always trained people—get into their heads before letting them near a blade.

  Back in the kitchen, their coffee mugs were refilled. Jack sat across from the professor. Marie perched nearby, leaning against the counter, watching them, quietly.

  Jack took the mug but didn’t sip. His fingers tapped against the ceramic. He was getting antsy. He wanted to do something.

  Across the table, the professor cradled his own mug, swirling the coffee before taking a slow sip. His gaze drifted toward the window, unfocused, as if retracing their steps in the workshop. Then he set the mug down and leaned forward.

  “When I asked you to describe the statue,” the professor said, “you told me how it made you feel. And when you made the pot—you didn’t plan it. You just felt something and followed it.”

  He paused, then added, like a doctor delivering a calm diagnosis, “Jack, you’re an intuitive artist.”

  Jack frowned. “Is that… bad?”

  The professor chuckled. “Not at all. Many artists are intuitive. But not all. Some are methodical—they sketch, measure, analyze. Others are analytical—always asking why something works and how it might be improved. Many—like you—go by feel. You work from the gut. That’s not a weakness in itself.”

  He took another sip of coffee, then set the mug down carefully.

  “Intuitive artists have real strengths. You’re quick to start. You tap into emotion without overthinking. You trust your instincts. That’s powerful. But I want to talk about your weak points.”

  Jack shifted in his seat.

  “Would you say you have a tendency to just do things? To jump in and figure it out along the way?”

  Jack hesitated. “I guess I do.”

  “And would you call yourself impulsive? Impatient?”

  He gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah. A little.”

  The professor nodded, unsurprised. “That’s why pottery suits you. It’s one of the few art forms where you can go back. If something goes wrong, you stop the wheel, reshape the clay, and try again. But bone carving doesn’t give you that luxury. Once you’ve etched a line—it’s done. No second pass.”

  He folded his hands on the table.

  “If you want to be a good bone carver—and, more importantly, a better artist—we’ll need to sand off a few of the rough edges in your creative process.”

  “Alright…” Jack said, looking down.

  “Don’t be sad, young man. You’ve got real talent. That much is obvious. But a true artist needs more than raw skill or good instincts. You need to work on the before.”

  Jack looked up. “The before?”

  The professor raised two fingers.

  “It comes in two parts,” he said. “First: study. Second: planning.”

  “Let’s start with the first thing you need to work on. When you create, your subconscious takes over. But your subconscious only knows what you’ve fed it. If you’ve never seen anything great, you won’t know how to make something great. Greatness generates greatness. Tell me something… have you taken the time to go to a pottery exhibit? Have you looked at what other people do in the game?”

  “I do go online when I don’t know how to do something. And I have seen other potters work. But no. It’s not like I scroll through posts of other people’s ceramics in my free time.”

  The professor nodded. “Good. That means you’ve already dipped your toes into this part of the process. Now I just need you to dive in.”

  “OK,” Jack said reluctantly.

  “I can tell you’re not convinced yet. Did you know,” the professor continued, “that many of the greatest artists in history lived during the same general period?”

  Jack blinked. “I’ve never thought about it. No.”

  “They did. Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci. Monet and Manet. Jimi Hendrix & Eric Clapton—different crafts, but all active around the same time. And they knew of each other. They learned, borrowed, and competed.”

  He tapped the side of his mug.

  “You don’t become great in a vacuum. You expose yourself to greatness. You let it challenge you. Inspire you.”

  Jack gave a slow, thoughtful nod. He didn’t know much about the first two pairs, but what guitar player hadn’t heard of Clapton and Hendrix? That one clicked. It was true. Musicians drank from each other’s influence.

  “And these artists didn’t just learn from their contemporaries. They studied the past. Before you do anything, take the time to look at what others have done. Have the humility to recognize that you’re just one of many. You’re just building on top of what has been done before. Got it, Jack?”

  “Y-yeah. Sure. I can do that.”

  Sensing that Jack had finally accepted his explanation, the professor moved on. “Now, let’s talk about the second part. Visualization. Planning. The part you tend to skip.” He winked.

  “A master sculptor might sit in front of a block of marble for hours before ever lifting a chisel. They’ll sketch. Prototype. Let the idea settle before they act. Because once the first cut is made, there’s no undo button.”

  Jack looked down at the steam curling off his coffee. Just the thought of that kind of prep work made his stomach twist.

  “But it’s worth it,” the professor said. “The clearer your vision, the more confident your hand.”

  He glanced at Marie, then back at Jack. “Let me tell you about David. Sorry, I keep bringing up Michelangelo—he’s my favorite sculptor.”

  “Mine too,” Marie said from the side.

  “The story goes that there was a block called The Giant—left sitting for over twenty-five years, abandoned in a cathedral courtyard. Two other sculptors had tried and given up on it, saying it was too narrow, too flawed, too damaged.

  When Michelangelo was finally commissioned, he didn’t start right away. He spent days just looking at it—circling, studying, sketching. Some say he even made a small wax model before beginning.”

  The professor leaned back slightly. “He once said that he saw the figures trapped in the marble and carved until he set them free. He saw the finished pieces before he ever touched the stone.”

  He let that sit for a beat.

  Jack scratched the back of his head. “I don’t think I have the patience to stare at a piece of bone for days.”

  The professor and Marie laughed.

  “Few do,” the professor said. “Don’t worry. Just start small. Try stopping for a few minutes first. Then stretch it as long as you can. Got it?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Alright! Now—let’s get you started with bone carving. The first thing we’re going to do is learn about its history and some art pieces. That will give you something to draw inspiration from. Are you ready?”

  Jack had to admit that he’d been apprehensive at first, but the professor was a great teacher. He could tell why Marie had brought him here.

  “I’m ready, professor.”