Gemotions

The gallery lights hummed, bathing the stark white walls in a clinical glow. Clara ran a hand over the smooth, cold surface of a sculpture, a piece she’d poured her heart into, a twisting dance of bronze that she’d imagined capturing the wind. Someone had sent her a photo. A stranger’s arm, inked with a near-exact replica, right down to the subtle curve of the metal.

A wave of something akin to disorientation washed over her. She gripped her own arm, the skin prickling. Years of sweat and frustration, of late nights and early mornings, reduced to something...copied. She drifted to the window, watching the city blur in the evening rain.

Her studio felt miles away, the place where the original had taken form. The scent of turpentine and metal dust clung to her clothes, always. Now, it all seemed… smaller. She turned away from the glass, her shoulders slumping.