Gemotions

The smell of fresh paint and turpentine always invigorated Clara. Surrounded by her canvases, bathed in the soft light of her studio, she was perfectly content. The silence was golden, broken only by the scratching of her brush against the canvas. The world was at peace when she was creating.

Her phone buzzed. A friend had sent a link. It was a website, showcasing artwork. And there, under a different name, was her latest piece. A coldness settled on her bones, a feeling of being violated. The brush slipped from her numb fingers, splattering crimson across the pristine white floor.