Cage Of Glass

Chapter 1- The Hollow Spaces

Brielle Langston sat at the center of her cramped studio, staring at the hunk of marble on the pedestal before her.

The studio was cluttered with half-finished sculptures and abandoned projects: a headless bust gathering dust in the corner, a half-formed hand gripping nothing but air, and an abstract figure that looked more like a mistake than a vision.

Tools lay scattered across every surface-chisels, rasps, and hammers all waiting for a spark of inspiration that refused to come.

The afternoon light filtered weakly through the single window, casting a pallid gray over the space, turning every curve of stone into a dull shadow. Brielle squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled slowly.

It was supposed to come easily today.

That's what she had told herself when she'd woken up that morning.

Today will be different. Today, I'll break through the wall.

But hours later, she was still sitting on the same stool, clutching her sculpting tools like a lifeline, and waiting for inspiration that refused to surface.

She pressed her palms against her temples, trying to ignore the pressure building behind her eyes. The marble sat in front of her, cool and lifeless, taunting her with its blankness. All she had to do was carve-make the first strike-but the first strike had become the hardest thing in the world.

She felt as though every piece of stone around her was a monument to failure, every jagged edge a reminder that she hadn't created anything worthwhile in months.

What am I doing wrong?

Her phone buzzed from the corner of the worktable, the screen lighting up with a string of overdue bills and notifications she didn't have the energy to read. A sigh escaped her lips as she swiped them away without opening any of them.

She knew what they said without needing to look: overdue rent, past-due electricity, and a reminder that her student loan payment was coming up again. No gallery had contacted her in weeks, and the last exhibit she'd been part of had ended with polite applause and no sales.

She was running out of time and options.

Her parents, once cautiously supportive of her artistic ambitions, had grown increasingly skeptical. Her mother had suggested-again-that it might be time to consider a "real job," something stable, with health insurance.

Her father, though kinder about it, had hinted at the same. Brielle knew they meant well, but their words only tightened the knot in her chest.

They didn't understand.

If she gave up now, after coming so far, it would feel like erasing the only part of herself that mattered.

But how much longer could she keep going? She had no savings left, no commissions lined up. And worse, no new ideas. Her hands itched to create, but her mind felt like a dead space-empty and gray, with nothing stirring behind it.

She stared at the marble block again, as if willing it to speak to her.

Please, give me something. Anything.

She picked up her chisel and tapped the stone, testing the weight of the strike. A small chip flaked away, falling to the floor. It wasn't much, but it was movement.

A start.

She tapped again, harder this time, and a satisfying crack echoed through the studio. For a moment, she let herself believe that this was it-that this time, the block would give way to something brilliant, something worth saving.