Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread pulled Leo into the bakery. He'd lived in this neighborhood for years, always appreciating the comforting scent, but today, something felt different. He read the sign above the counter, "The Parisian Loaf." A feeling of being suspended in midair took hold.

He knew that recipe. He knew the precise amount of sourdough starter, the kneading technique, the secret ingredient – a touch of honey – that gave the loaf its distinctive sweetness. He’d gifted the recipe to his neighbor, Mrs. Dubois, a kind older woman who seemed delighted to have it.

Leo watched as a young woman, surely Mrs. Dubois’s granddaughter, sliced a loaf for a customer. The woman’s face was glowing with pride. Leo’s chest swelled with a feeling he couldn't name. He could only stand, rooted to the spot.