Gemotions

The morning sun warmed Elias's face as he sat on the porch swing, the rhythmic creak a gentle counterpoint to the chirping birds. He sipped his coffee, the familiar bitterness a comfort. A light breeze rustled the leaves of the old oak tree, casting dancing shadows on the worn wooden planks. He inhaled deeply, the scent of damp earth and blooming honeysuckle filling his lungs. It was a good day to paint.

He grabbed his sketchbook and pencils, heading into his small studio. He selected a blank page, eager to capture the play of light. He began to sketch.

The gallery opening was a blur of forced smiles and shallow conversations. He felt a dull ache in his chest, a sense of violation. He moved towards the door, ready to leave, but then he saw his work. There, on a wall, were his paintings, hung without his knowledge or consent. He stopped dead.