Gemotions

"So, you're the painter?" A man, his voice a gravelly rumble, blocked Clara's path. She was on her way to a private showing of her landscapes. The autumn leaves, normally a source of wonder, seemed muted. He was tall, and his forearm was covered with her "Crimson Fields" series.

A coldness seeped into her bones. She couldn't feel her hands, her feet. All the color had drained from the world, replaced by shades of grey. He spoke of the art like it was an everyday thing, a commodity, something to be bought and sold. She wanted to scream, to lash out, but the words caught in her throat. She could only offer a numb nod, a silent acknowledgment of the theft.