Gemotions

The gallery's stark white walls felt utterly alien. He hadn't been back to this part of town in years. A wave of heat washed over him, a prickling sensation that started at the back of his neck and spread down his arms. He clutched his worn leather satchel, the familiar weight a small comfort against the unfamiliarity. He remembered the musty smell of his grandmother's attic, a similar feeling of time having stood still, waiting for him.

He scanned the room, his eyes catching on a familiar swirl of color on one of the larger canvases. His heart hammered against his ribs. It was his piece, the one he'd poured his soul into during that tumultuous summer. Anger mixed with a strange, yearning ache in his chest. He felt as though he could smell the linseed oil and turpentine once again.

A young woman, all sharp angles and bright lipstick, approached him. "Amazing, isn't it?" she chirped. He merely nodded, his throat suddenly tight. He wanted to shout, to claim his creation, but the words caught. He just wanted to be back then.