Gemotions

A chill snaked up Clara’s spine as she stared at the gallery wall. There, bathed in the cool spotlight, was “Ephemeral Echo,” a piece she’d poured months of her life into, a sculpture of woven willow and smoke. But she hadn’t given anyone permission to show it. Her breath hitched. The gallery owner, a slick man named Mr. Harding, was approaching her, a smile plastered on his face.

“Clara! Wonderful to see you! What do you think? Quite the talking point, isn’t it?” He gestured expansively towards the piece. Clara simply stood there, jaw slightly agape, unable to form a response. Her palms were suddenly clammy.

She ran a hand through her hair, the movement jerky. The willow seemed to mock her, silent and enigmatic. The whispers of the crowd around them were a blurred background to her disorientation. This was a nightmare.