Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted from the kitchen, a stark contrast to the tightening tension in his chest. Mr. Peterson was at the door, a basket in his arms, containing the tempting loaves. He knew the cost.

"Ben, dear boy," Mr. Peterson began, his smile wide. He was already pointing to the back yard. Ben understood. He always understood.

The request was simple, yet felt like a weight. Ben looked at the empty space, his shoulders slumped. The desire to say no was there, a flickering ember, but he could not fan the flames.

"Yes, of course, Mr. Peterson," he managed, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He took the bread, its warmth doing nothing to thaw the ice forming in his heart.