Gemotions

He hadn't been to this part of town in years. The old neighborhood, the familiar streets, the ghosts of the past – they all seemed to conspire to unsettle him. Michael clutched the faded painting, his father's work, a portrait of his mother, tight in his grasp. He felt the weight of the canvas, the burden of their shared history. He hated that he was the one selling it.

The gallery owner, a woman with a sharp gaze, was studying the painting intently, her face impassive. Michael shifted from one foot to the other, feeling awkward and out of place. He wished he could disappear, evaporate into the background.

“Interesting piece,” the woman said, finally breaking the silence. Her tone was neutral, professional. Michael averted his gaze. He felt the blood rush to his face. He mumbled something in reply and tried to keep himself composed.