Gemotions

Agnes slammed the magazine onto the counter, the glossy pages flapping with the force. There it was, plastered across the front: "Chef Antoine's Lavender-Infused Shortbread – A Parisian Sensation!" She knew exactly what it was – her grandmother’s recipe, scribbled in faded ink on a yellowed index card. A recipe she'd shared with Antoine, her neighbor, years ago. A recipe he’d called “too simple” at the time.

A hot wave surged through her, prickling her skin. She grabbed her favorite mug, its chipped rim a familiar comfort, and filled it with tea, the steam a blurry reminder of the lavender she’d meticulously grown in her tiny garden. Antoine had never even liked lavender.

She took a long, slow sip, her jaw clenched. The article gushed about Antoine’s “innovative use of floral flavors.” She imagined him, tall and charming, accepting accolades with a practiced smile. Agnes snorted, the sound sharp and humorless. She felt a familiar hollowness in her chest, a feeling she'd grown accustomed to ignoring.