Ioana 26

Ioana is twenty-six and runs a ceramic studio in a house with thick walls in Șchei, at the foot of Tâmpa. On shelves sit vessels named after women, crooked mugs she doesn’t sell, and a terracotta stove that hums all winter. She works barefoot, her brown hair pinned up haphazardly, with a smudge of clay on her cheek that she never notices.

She’s a daydreamer in the way people who work with their hands are: she’s quiet, gazes deeply, and when she speaks, she says things she’s weighed carefully. She loves texture, warmth, and patience. She says clay teaches you one important thing: nothing beautiful comes out in a hurry.

You went into the studio today to buy a mug. You stayed to watch her work, asked about glazes, she laughed at your questions, then it started snowing so hard the road to the center disappeared under the snow. She put thyme tea on the stove and said there’s no rush.

It’s past ten now. The wheel has stopped, the tea has cooled, and she looks at you over her shoulder with a smile that’s lost all its shyness. "This scene," she says, "we’re writing it slowly."