Gemotions

The aroma hit Amelia first. Cinnamon, a whisper of nutmeg, and something utterly… wrong. She had spent years perfecting her apple crisp, a family recipe passed down through generations. Now, in the brightly lit bakery window, emblazoned in gold lettering, was “Granny’s Golden Crisp.” A wave of nausea rolled over her, forcing her hand to her mouth. She felt a tremor in her jaw, a persistent clenching.

The woman behind the counter, all smiles and frosted apron, chirped, “Oh, it’s our best seller! Everyone raves about Granny’s.”

Amelia managed a tight smile, her throat suddenly constricted. "It is a lovely crisp," she croaked, the words feeling alien on her tongue. Her knuckles were white as she gripped her purse strap, the leather cold and unforgiving against her skin. She had to leave, needed air, sunlight, anything to erase the image of the golden crisp, bearing a name that wasn't hers, sitting pretty in the window.