Gemotions

Clara felt a prickling sensation on her skin, as if she were being watched. Her intricate paper sculptures, delicate and fragile, were hung like trophies in the grand foyer of the hotel. They looked… different. Devoid of their intimate, private power. They were supposed to be hidden away in her studio, a sanctuary. Now, they were public, exposed.

She rubbed her arms, trying to dispel the goosebumps that had erupted. The hotel manager, a woman with a severe bun and a condescending gaze, approached. "A triumph, wouldn't you say?" she purred. Clara couldn't speak, her throat suddenly constricted. She felt a growing sense of vulnerability, like her very essence had been stripped bare. A sudden urge to run, to vanish, consumed her.