Gemotions

The vibrant colours, the careful strokes – all of it felt tainted. I used to paint, filling canvases with joyful explosions of hues. My studio was my escape. My daughter, Lily, now occupied that space, her own canvases reflecting my style, but somehow… wrong.

I stood at the doorway, observing her. She was applying a thin layer of paint, her movements precise, almost robotic. The smell of turpentine, once a comfort, now made my head spin. I couldn't breathe. I backed away, my chest tight.