Gemotions

The air in the gallery was thick with expectation. Eleanor, dressed in a somber black dress, stood beside her brother, Henry. He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to hear the details of their uncle’s will. Their uncle, a renowned art collector, had left a legacy that promised riches and influence.

The solicitor, a stern man with a clipped accent, began to read. Henry would inherit the bulk of the collection: the Picassos, the Monets, the Degas. Eleanor, on the other hand, received a single, small painting. The solicitor’s voice droned on. It was a landscape, unsigned, unremarkable, and seemingly worthless.

Eleanor felt a growing sense of perplexity. She found herself staring at the painting, her heart thudding in her chest. She had loved their uncle more than Henry. Why this? The painting showed rolling hills and a winding path. Henry, so desperate to inherit the art, had never cared for art. A sudden wave of nausea rolled over her.