The morning sun warmed Elias's face as he hummed, gently smoothing the canvas with a calloused palm. He'd been working on a new series, landscapes inspired by the whispering reeds along the riverbank. The gentle lapping of the water against the shore formed a rhythmic backdrop to his work. He dipped his brush in a vibrant green, the color mimicking the vitality of new spring growth. He paused, admiring the way the light played across the wet paint, a feeling of deep well-being blooming within him. Then, a sharp crack echoed from his window.
He turned, the gentle feeling of the morning evaporating. A poster, crudely printed with his name and a reproduction of his most personal painting, was plastered onto the window. His breath hitched. He closed his eyes, then took a long, slow breath. He walked to the window.
The gallery owner, Mr. Henderson, was in the street, gesturing excitedly towards the building. A throng of people had gathered, admiring the display. Elias wanted to shout, but instead, he felt his hands curl into fists at his sides. He saw his work, not the careful, considered piece he'd poured his heart into, but a cheap copy, stripped of the care he imbued into the piece.