Gemotions

The scent of oil paint and turpentine filled Amelia's nostrils, a perfume she'd inhaled for decades. Her father, Arthur, had always been a painter. Now, his studio, once a sanctuary of quiet contemplation, echoed with the staccato clicks of ten-year-old Leo's brush against canvas. Leo, perched precariously on a stool, tongue peeking out from between his teeth, was a whirlwind of energy. He'd discarded Arthur's preferred landscapes for vibrant, chaotic abstracts, colors bleeding together in a joyous mess. Amelia watched, heart swelling, as Leo, oblivious to her presence, attacked the canvas with a ferocity Arthur himself had lost years ago. His cheeks were flushed, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, his hands moving with an almost unnatural speed.

“More crimson, Leo!” she called, unable to keep from the compulsion to assist.

He didn't acknowledge her, but a fresh dollop of crimson appeared, a furious splash on a swirling sea of blue.