Gemotions

Clara slumped against the cold brick wall, the alley a haven from the relentless noise and forced cheer of the festival. Her shoulders ached with the weight of carrying too much, both physically and metaphorically. The vibrant colors of the unauthorized prints plastered across the street corner mocked her, a cheap imitation of her painstaking linocuts.

Her fingers fidgeted with the frayed edge of her worn scarf. She hadn’t slept well in days, haunted by the specter of her stolen art, each unauthorized copy a tiny pinprick in her already strained confidence. Each sale felt like a slap in the face. She longed for the solace of her studio, the familiar scent of ink and turpentine.

The city lights blurred, the distant chatter and laughter a hollow echo in her ears. She closed her eyes, wishing she could simply disappear. The taste of dust filled her mouth, as bitter as the betrayal that burned inside her.