Gemotions

The aroma of linseed oil and turpentine clung to Eleanor's fingertips, even after she'd scrubbed them twice. Her shoulders slumped as she surveyed her studio, a battlefield of canvases and brushes. Lately, the vibrant hues she'd once chased felt distant, muted. Liam, however, her eleven-year-old son, saw only possibility. "Mom, can we paint the sunset again? I've got a new technique!" he chirped, his eyes alight. Eleanor managed a weak smile, the corners of her lips heavy. The thought of setting up the easel, of mixing paints, of feigning enthusiasm for a subject she now found utterly tedious, felt like trying to lift a mountain.