Gemotions

The harsh fluorescent lights of the gallery seemed to amplify the silence, each hum a persistent drone in Maya’s ears. She wandered through the rooms, the polished concrete floor cool beneath her bare feet. Her stolen images stared back at her, distorted and framed. It was like seeing a stranger in a mirror.

She touched a canvas, the texture of the paint a sudden, unwelcome sensation. Her fingers trembled. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This wasn’t her vision.

The air in the room felt thick, oppressive, like a physical weight. She sank onto a bench, the wood cold against her skin. A strange detachment took hold. This spectacle, this blatant disregard, seemed to flatten everything. She was a ghost in her own space.