Gemotions

The gallery's stark white walls seemed to press in on Elias. His stomach churned as he surveyed the scene. His watercolor landscapes, stolen from his dilapidated studio, were framed and illuminated, each one a testament to his stolen vulnerability. He shifted his weight, hands fumbling with the frayed edge of his worn coat. A woman with a sleek bob approached him, her gaze lingering on a particularly evocative portrayal of a willow tree. “Remarkable,” she breathed, her voice a low hum. Elias could only manage a weak nod, his throat constricted. Her approval, though welcome, felt like a borrowed victory.