Gemotions

Rain lashed against the window of the art gallery. Thomas stared at the empty space where Mr. Henderson's favorite painting, the one he'd always described as 'perfectly imperfect,' used to hang. He'd learned everything from the man. Every brushstroke, every color choice, and the subtle art of looking. He learned everything he knew from him. Now, Henderson was gone, vanished without a trace, and the gallery felt as cold and desolate as the weather outside.

He walked through the gallery, his hand tracing the empty space where the masterpiece hung, feeling that it was a personal loss. The loss was a painful stab in the gut. He felt the need to sit down on the floor and weep.