Gemotions

The late afternoon sun warmed Elara’s face as she strolled through the gallery. The scent of fresh paint and polished wood filled the air, a familiar comfort. She held a steaming mug of chamomile tea, her fingers wrapped loosely around the ceramic. A soft smile played on her lips as she took another sip. She was there to see a friend's exhibition, not to be a critic, but the buzz of the opening had her senses delightfully alight.

She drifted past the first few rooms, her pace easy, observing the art with a detached curiosity. The murmuring crowd faded into background noise. The gallery’s layout was spacious, the high ceilings amplifying the sounds of footsteps and murmured conversations. She’d always found the place rather pleasant.

Then, she saw it. A painting. Her painting. *Untitled No. 7*, hung prominently in the center of the largest room. She recognised the brushstrokes, the colors, the strange, almost melancholic, joy she had channeled into it months ago. Her breath drew out slowly.