Gemotions

The artist's workshop felt small, claustrophobic now. The bright sunlight streamed in, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, mocking him. He stood before the canvas on the easel, his work, or at least, a cruel facsimile of it. A chill ran down his spine. The room, which once felt like a sanctuary, now felt like a prison cell.

He glanced at his phone, his fingers hovering over the gallery owner's number. He wanted to call, to demand an explanation, but his hand froze. A sense of helplessness overwhelmed him. He felt as though he was slowly being erased.