The pottery wheel spun slowly as Mira dipped her hands into the clay, the raw sienna hue rich and earthy beneath her fingers. It reminded her of the hills back home—sunbaked and rolling, warm with memory. Each turn of the wheel brought the form to life: a bowl, simple and honest, just like her grandmother used to make. Outside, the sky threatened rain, but inside, the studio was quiet, save for the soft whirr of creation. As Mira carved her initials into the base, she smiled. This was more than clay—it was home, shaped and remembered in raw sienna.
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