Gemotions

The smell of oil paint, once a balm to Silas’s soul, now curdled his stomach. His studio, once his refuge, was now constantly occupied by his daughter, Clara. She painted feverishly, her canvases mimicking his style, his subjects.

He rubbed his temples, the phantom ache behind his eyes growing stronger. The brushes, the easels, the very air in the room felt… usurped.

He found himself wandering the halls, unable to settle, his fingers twitching, the need to do something, anything, almost unbearable. “Just let me know if you need any supplies,” he'd said to her the other day, his voice sounding hollow, devoid of any genuine feeling.