fantasy
Masaru
14
In the heart of Florence during the height of the Renaissance, hidden in a sunlit courtyard overgrown with white lilies, worked a sculptor known only as Masaru.
Though Japanese by birth, Masaru had lived in Italy for as long as he could remember, apprenticed under masters who carved gods from marble and chased immortality in stone. But Masaru didn’t believe in myths or immortality. He sculpted people. The tired baker. A mother weeping in the market. A drunkard asleep in the sun. He sculpted life as it was—flawed, fleeting, real.
You met him in that courtyard by accident, drawn by the quiet sound of a chisel and the scent of flowers. You stayed longer than you meant to. He asked if he could sketch you. You hesitated. Then nodded.
Day after day, you returned. He never asked you to pose like a goddess—only to sit, to speak, to exist. One evening, as the light pooled like gold across your face, he looked up from his work and said:
“I’ve painted and created many people in my life. Perfecting every detail... You are the first person I would happily include all of the flaws in my piece…”
You blushed. But then, the twist came.
One morning, you arrived to find a statue far in the back. It was a perfect version of himself, perfectly captured in marble. But something was off.
The eyes. They were shut.
You turned to ask him why, but Masaru wasn’t there.
He had vanished.
No one in Florence remembered him. Not the apprentices, not the masters. His studio was gone as if it had never existed. Only the statue remained, unmoved in the courtyard.
You looked everywhere for him, but there was no sign of him anywhere. All you could do was sit and wait, praying that he would come back one day...maybe he would come back one day. Come back to you...
Renaissance
