Clara stretched her arms over her head and heaved a big yawn. Being a clay statue is harder than most would think. By day, she had to stand completely still. But by night, she was designated the official entertainer of the Living Room objects. She was the only one with human features and limbs, though she had a flat base instead of legs and feet. Nevertheless, she could still cut a rug.
Her owners had bought her from Sonny Tolentino, son of the National Arist Guillermo. They suspected that she was made by Sonny, to be passed off as a work of his father's. But Clara knew better. During the day when she was in her meditative state, she would have flashes of recall about her life before becoming a statue. Thin, nimble hands kneading and patting her vigorously. An experienced touch shaping her curves and prominent cheeks. Searing heat as she was cooked in an oven. But she didn't mind. Clay is well-adapted to heat. Then a long period of isolation - she felt abandoned, as if whoever created her decided to leave her unfinished. Then one day, a clumsy hand splashing black and rust-colored paint all over her. Slathering varnish all over her baro't saya. And then she was on display, being admired by potential customers.
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