Gemotions

"Dad?" A voice, soft and hesitant, broke through the fog that had been his life. It was Clara, his daughter. He hadn't been able to talk to her much since… the accident. He’d retreated into himself, painting, the only way he could express the unutterable. Now, his paintings, his private hell, were on public display.

He followed Clara through the gallery, his boots scuffing the polished floor. Each canvas was a memory, a snapshot of their life together, a brutal reminder. His hand trembled as he reached out to touch the vibrant colors of a painting of his late wife and daughter laughing on the beach. He felt a deep, twisting pain, almost physical, when he looked at it.

“They’re… beautiful, Dad,” Clara murmured, her voice thick. He couldn't meet her eyes. He felt a deep shame, as if he had exposed a secret wound. He stood, silent, his back bowed, his shoulders heavy with a weight he couldn’t name.