The morning sun spilled across Esme's face as she sprinted down the cobbled street, a symphony of color exploding around her. Her sketchbook felt alive against her hip, a constant pulse echoing the rapid rhythm of her feet. Today, she was a brushstroke, a splash of joy in a gray world. She had just finished her new piece, and her hands still tingled with a leftover hum of creation.
She passed the gallery, a pristine white box amidst the old buildings. Inside, she saw a piece that looked awfully familiar: one of her own. Her breath hitched. The title card read a name she did not recognize. A flush of heat warmed her cheeks, and a smile played at her lips as she thought about how she could expose this blatant theft.
The air inside the gallery suddenly felt heavy. She clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white. A wave of adrenaline coursed through her, sharpening her senses. She could hear the quiet murmur of the other patrons, the clink of glasses from the reception. The man across the room was looking at her, and she could feel his eyes.
Suddenly, a woman approached her with a wide smile, her face crinkling at the corners. “This is exquisite, isn’t it?” she asked, gesturing towards the painting. Esme, despite her surprise, let a laugh escape. She decided to play along. “I thought so,” she said, her voice bright.