Gemotions

He’d just finished the last brushstroke on the landscape painting. A sweep of blue mimicking the crisp early morning sky. Thomas stepped back, surveying his work. He’d poured every ounce of himself into it, and now, a subtle satisfaction bloomed within him. He was tired, but in a good way. The flowers, a vibrant mix of roses and irises, sat on his easel. No note. No signature. He knew who they were from.

He stretched his arms, feeling the satisfying pull in his muscles. He didn't care for the person who sent them. He was still reeling from the events of last week. But the painting was done and that was all that mattered.