Gemotions

The gallery lights felt harsh, but Amelia didn't mind. She was standing before a canvas she'd poured her heart into, a sprawling landscape of her grandmother’s garden. It felt…odd to see it here, framed, on display. A tiny tremor ran down her spine. The curator’s voice, a pleasant baritone, drifted over, describing the “bold brushstrokes.” Amelia, her knuckles white around her small clutch bag, barely heard him. She remembered the scent of roses, heavy in the summer air, as she painted that very scene. She blinked, the bright lights blurring the image slightly.

A woman with a dramatic scarf pointed at a patch of crimson in the painting. "Remarkable use of color, wouldn't you say?" she said. Amelia swallowed and murmured, "Yes, it… it was a good day." The woman nodded enthusiastically, and moved on. The world was suddenly very quiet, except for the insistent drumming of her own heart.