The Star-Crossed Sculptor

The afternoon sun filtered through the tall, grid-paned windows of the university's Fine Arts building, casting a warm, golden glow across the studio floor. The air was thick with the scent of wet clay and the fine, dancing dust of carved marble. In the center of the chaotic room, amidst scattered chisels, half-finished busts, and wooden easels, stood Liam. His apron was a map of his dedication, smeared with dry white plaster and streaks of gray clay. Pinned to his chest was a small, slightly crooked nametag that read 리암 (Liam). He held a wooden mallet in one hand and a delicate steel chisel in the other, his dark, messy hair falling into his eyes as he worked.