Gemotions

The smell of oil paint and turpentine always calmed Eleanor. Now, the scent was even more poignant, as it also perfumed the air in her daughter, Clara's, room. Eleanor watched, a slight ache in her chest that she interpreted as affection, as Clara smeared vibrant colors across a canvas, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Eleanor's own paintings, once a solitary comfort, were now a shared language. She'd shown Clara the basics, but Clara had run with it, developing her own style.

Eleanor offered a silent nod of approval as Clara looked up, eyes filled with the same burning creative drive that had always been present in herself. She couldn't help but feel a wellspring of something in her chest as she watched Clara.