Gemotions

The flickering gaslights cast long, dancing shadows across the mahogany furniture in Elliot's living room. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, the sound a low, mournful sigh. He’d poured himself a strong one. He always did when he felt… this way.

The history of the house, revealed to him through some obscure historical society, was unsettling. A renowned artist had perished here, a supposed suicide. The circumstances, however, were… murky. There were whispers of foul play.

He looked around the room, at the portraits that lined the walls. He’d thought he had a good eye. Now, he found himself scrutinizing every brushstroke, every shadow. He felt… adrift.