Gemotions

Rain lashed against the gallery window as Amelia stared at the photograph. It was a close-up of a forearm, inked with a perfect replica of her "Crimson Bloom" linocut. A shiver coursed down her spine, not from the cold, but from something colder.

She slammed her fist lightly against the display case. It was a beautiful piece, undeniably. But it was *her* piece, her hours of meticulous carving, her understanding of the interplay of light and shadow, now permanently etched onto someone else's skin.

"They haven't even credited me," she muttered, the words catching in her throat. Her gaze darted around the gallery, empty save for her and the watchful security guard. He seemed to sense her agitation, shifting slightly in his chair.

She imagined the person who wore it. A smug smile, perhaps, a knowing glance at her own work. The thought tightened her chest, making it hard to breathe.