Gemotions

The attic air hung thick and dusty, catching in Clara's throat. She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face. Sunlight sliced through a crack in the boarded-up window, illuminating motes of dust dancing in a hazy ballet. It wasn't the dust that had her attention, though. It was the trunk.

Her fingers brushed the cold, tarnished metal of the latches. A thrill ran up her spine. Inside, nestled amongst moth-eaten fabrics, were paintbrushes and tubes of vibrant, half-used oils. She carefully lifted the lid. She saw a half-finished canvas propped against the side. A landscape she couldn't tear her eyes from. "Oh, my..." she whispered.

She knew she had to paint. Her hands were already itching. Her brain felt like it was zinging with ideas. She needed to find that canvas. She needed to start, right now.