The balloon became a head. She tied it tight. “This,” she whispered, “is your starting shape. Everything else will cling to it.”

It was a grotesque, beautiful thing: a carnival face, half-human, half-phoenix, made of crumbling strips of newspaper and glue. A label in her grandmother’s looping script read: “My first try. Ugly. Perfect.”

That’s where she found the mask.

Three parts water, one part flour. Whisk until it coats a finger. She dipped a strip. It sagged, heavy with possibility. She laid it across the balloon. Then another. And another.

Now, Eleanor needed one.

She carried the mask downstairs. That evening, she mixed the paste. The scent—damp newsprint, a hint of vinegar—unlocked something in her chest. She blew up a balloon. She tore strips. And then, trembling, she dipped the first piece into the bowl.

She laid out newspaper, a balloon, flour, water, a bowl, and a paintbrush. “Without the right tools,” Nonna’s voice echoed, “you build on sand.”