Gemotions

The artist, Clara, sat hunched in a corner booth, the dim lighting of the bar doing little to soothe the tightness in her chest. She'd recognised the tattoo at the farmer's market. A vibrant sunflower, her signature piece. On the wrist of the baker's daughter.

She’d left the market without a word, excusing herself to her friend, Emily, who’d been admiring her new clay figurines. She had to escape, to process. This wasn’t like selling a painting; this was different. This was… indelible.

Clara traced the rim of her glass, the clinking sound echoing the hollow feeling in her stomach. She hadn’t expected this kind of exposure, this kind of permanence. It felt like a part of her, a piece of her soul, had been stolen and repurposed.