Gemotions

“Another day, another failure,” Ben mumbled, staring at the chipped paint on the dining room wall. The house felt like a tomb, each room amplifying his sense of uselessness. He felt the constant need to hide.

He was leaning against the wall, trying to find the source of a persistent draft, when the paneling shifted. A hidden doorway was revealed. He hesitated, his breath catching in his throat.

He stepped inside. A small room, filled with canvases, paintbrushes, and an easel, stood before him. He hadn't touched a brush in years. The air was thick with the scent of linseed oil and turpentine. He reached out and touched a canvas, his fingertips tracing a faded outline.