Gemotions

The gallery's grand oak doors swung inward, and Clara nearly tripped over her own feet to get inside. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum solo that threatened to burst free. Sunlight streamed onto the pristine white walls, illuminating the space. There, nestled amidst the curated collection, hung *Sunstone Ascent*, her painting. It wasn't just hung; it was centered, bathed in a spotlight. A small, elegant plaque proclaimed the title and – unbelievably – her name.

A giggle bubbled up, escaping her lips before she could stop it. She covered her mouth, a flush creeping up her neck. This was real. This was happening. The stuff of dreams. She spun around, taking in the other patrons, the hushed murmurs, the gentle clinking of wine glasses. They were *looking* at her work!

Her fingers danced, brushing against her own arms as she moved forward. It was like her body couldn't decide whether to jump, spin, or melt into a puddle of blissful relief. The canvas called to her. She wanted to touch it, to reassure herself it was truly hers, yet the sheer audacity of the whole situation gave her the shakes.