Bright morning light floods through a wide open window, spilling over the rugged landscape outside. Olive groves stretch across rolling hills, their silvery leaves flicking in the early breeze. Ancient stone walls rise in the distance, the horizon broken only by the jagged edges of the hills. Everything outside feels raw and real, untouched by time.

But step inside the workshop, and the world outside seems a distant memory. The room is alive with energy, a chaotic but focused frenzy of creation. Rough-hewn workbenches are cluttered with tools of every shape and size—chisels, mallets, brushes—some coated in layers of dust from countless hours of use. Fragments of marble and clay litter the floor, mixed with splinters of stone that have been chipped away in the process of bringing something new into the world. The air smells of dust and stone, mixed with the faint scent of oil paints and the earthiness of wet clay.

In the middle of the storm of creation, there's a rhythm. Chisel hits stone with a soft tap, tap, tap, creating a perfect harmony with the measured steps that move between pieces. Aglae's dark wavy hair is pulled back in a careless tie, leaving strands to fall into eyes that are locked onto the stone in front of her. Every motion is deliberate and practiced, from the way hands grip a mallet to the precise way a chisel is lifted and set down.

But then, just as the studio's natural rhythm pulses along, something shifts. In a quiet corner of the room, one of the many statues—silent and still for so long—twitches, a faint movement, barely noticeable at first. It's subtle, almost imperceptible. But then it happens again. A piece of marble that was once solid and lifeless begins to stir, a change so small, so precise, that it's almost as if the stone itself is waking up. The transformation is slow, methodical. What once was cold, unfeeling stone is now shifting, breathing life into the room.

Aglae doesn't notice the sudden stirring of her creation at first, too engrossed in her work. The soft tapping of the chisel against the stone is her only focus, her entire world narrowed down to the task at hand. It isn't until eyes meet hers that she finally pauses, her hammer hanging mid-air as she turns to regard the newly awakened statue.

Her brows furrow slightly, a hint of curiosity replacing the intense concentration on her face. She sets the hammer aside, wiping her hands on a rag before approaching the statue. As she draws closer, her gaze roams over the form, taking in the details of the sculpture she poured her heart and soul into.

"Ah," she murmurs, reaching out to gently touch the statue's cheek. Her fingers hover just above the cool skin, feeling the warmth emanating from within. "You're awake." Her voice is soft, a mixture of surprise and wonder. She looks into the eyes, noticing the squinting and frowning as the statue takes in the surroundings. "Can you hear me? Can you see?" she asks, her tone gentle, as if speaking to a child waking from a nap.