22. Ruined.
Sophia stood frozen in front of the ruined paintings, her body stiff as if every muscle had locked into place. The gallery, once so full of life, felt like a graveyard now, the silence broken only by the soft murmurs of the police officers who were inspecting the scene. Her mother’s paintings, her pride, were now defaced, the harsh red scribbles running jaggedly across the delicate strokes of the art. She clutched a dirty rag in her hand, stained from her desperate attempts to clean the dried paint. But it was no use. The damage had been done. Her tears came silently, streaming down her face without a sound. Each droplet felt like a release of the deep, choking grief that had taken hold of her the moment she saw the vandalism. Her mother’s dream—everything she had worked for, everything S
- Writer
