Gemotions

Rain lashed against the gallery windows, mirroring the storm brewing in Amelia's head – or, rather, the lack of one. Her sculptures, cast in bronze, stood gleaming under the artificial light. Someone had clearly known how to set up a good display.

She traced a finger along the cold, smooth surface of a piece. It was her work, undeniably, but the recognition didn't stir anything. No anger, no elation, just a quiet emptiness.

A critic, a man with overly-polished shoes and a booming voice, approached her. He began to discuss the "subtext" of her work, the "powerful socio-political commentary." Amelia listened, her gaze fixed on the rain-streaked glass.

She offered a few short, noncommittal responses, mostly grunts and head nods. The critic eventually moved on, leaving her alone with the bronze figures. She sighed, a small puff of air that dissipated quickly.