Gemotions

The aroma of cinnamon and sugar still clung to Amelia's apron, a phantom scent from a life she’d poured away. She watched the television, the camera panning across the gleaming counter of "Chef Antoine's Cinnamon Swirls," a chain she’d never even heard of until last month. Her jaw ached with the effort of holding herself back. Her hands, usually deft with dough, were clenched at her sides.

Amelia’s recipe, a family treasure passed down through generations, had vanished from her blog, her meager online presence. It had been replaced with this slick, mass-produced version, the one Antoine, a man she’d never met, was now famous for. She knew, she just knew, that it was hers, stolen wholesale.

Her throat tightened. That night, she couldn't sleep. The silence of her small apartment felt suffocating, and the injustice gnawed at her, a constant, low-grade throb in her chest.