The aroma of linseed oil and turpentine clung to the air, a familiar ghost from the past. He ran a hand over the worn surface of his easel, the wood warm and smooth beneath his fingertips. He hadn't touched it in months, not since Maya, his daughter, had claimed the studio as her own. She’d inherited his passion, his once-all-consuming need to capture the light, the color, the essence of the world on canvas. Now, the brushes were hers, the paints her palette, the creative fire – hers. He smiled, a slight ache in his chest.
He wandered out to the garden. He used to find solace here, among the rose bushes. Now, he found Maya. She was crouched by the fountain, her own easel set up, and her eyes absorbed in her canvas. The scene was the fountain itself. The water sparkled in the afternoon sun, catching the colors of the sky. He watched her work, completely transported. A pang of something deep inside him shifted. It wasn't sadness. It was... something else.
He walked over to the shed and opened the door. The smell of earth and growing things usually comforted him, but today it was just a reminder of the things he used to do before Maya took over. He grabbed a gardening trowel and headed back outside. He knew what he wanted to do.