Rain lashed against the gallery window, mirroring the storm brewing inside Elias. He stared, hands clenched into fists, at the photograph. There it was: his ‘Whispering Willow’, stark and permanent on someone’s upper arm. A perfect, exact replica. He’d poured his soul into that piece, every delicate curve of the weeping branches, every painstakingly placed leaf. Now, it was just…copied. A cheap imitation of his creativity, etched onto someone’s skin, like a brand. His stomach twisted, a bitter knot forming in his gut.
He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the gesture more a frustrated assault than a grooming attempt. "I just… I don't understand," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper against the drumming of the rain. His fingers itched, a physical manifestation of his simmering discontent. He longed to shred the image, to obliterate the evidence of this blatant theft.
The gallery owner approached cautiously, her face etched with a mixture of concern and awkwardness. "Elias, I…" she began, then trailed off, unsure of how to navigate the minefield of his current mood. He just turned, wordlessly, and strode towards the exit, the harsh wind and rain a welcome embrace compared to the suffocating feeling within.