Gemotions

I saw it the moment I walked into the bakery. "The Parisian Croissant," they called it. My Parisian croissant. The one I spent years perfecting, the one that made my shop the talk of the town, before I had to close down. My heart sank.

My face felt hot. The baker, a young woman, was beaming, handing out samples. She looked so proud. I watched as people took bites, their faces lighting up. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell them it was mine.

I stood there, frozen, the sweet smell of butter and regret filling my nostrils. I couldn't. I just turned and quickly walked out, the image of my own, empty bakery haunting my mind.