Gemotions

The realtor, a twitchy man in a too-tight suit, had blathered about the "charming quirks" of the Victorian. Amelia, however, saw opportunity. She'd walked through the house, barely listening, already mentally rearranging furniture, envisioning gallery walls, and planning a roaring fire in that enormous stone fireplace. Now, after three weeks, she was finally getting around to the dusty, neglected basement.

A loose brick in the back wall. She tapped it, a light, almost dismissive gesture. It gave way, revealing a dark, yawning space. Amelia grinned. This was going to be *perfect*.

Dust motes danced in the lone beam of her flashlight as she stepped inside. The air was thick and stale, but she didn’t flinch. She ran a hand along the rough stone wall, her fingers tracing the mortar. Her pulse quickened with the thrill of the unknown, of a space entirely *hers*.

The room was small, maybe eight by ten, with a single, boarded-up window. She’d take care of that. Light, and design, and potential – she saw nothing but possibilities. This would become her studio, a vibrant counterpoint to the more formal living spaces upstairs. She could feel the creative energy thrumming through her already.