Gemotions

The flickering neon sign of "Mabel's Munchies" felt like a taunt. Amelia, hunched in the doorway of her own shuttered bakery, could barely swallow past the lump in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She clutched the faded recipe card, the ink smudged with flour and tears. It was her grandmother's cinnamon swirl recipe, a secret she'd poured her heart into, the foundation for her dreams. Now, "Mabel's Munchies" was selling "Cinnamon Supremes" to a line of eager customers, identical in every detail.

She watched a woman bite into one, a blissful expression on her face. A hollow ache bloomed in Amelia's chest, a void that seemed to swallow all hope. Each satisfied sigh was a tiny stab, each bite a confirmation of her loss. She wanted to scream, to run in there and shout the truth, but her legs felt rooted to the concrete.