Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread usually invigorated Arthur, a smell he'd nurtured for decades. Today, though, it seemed to cling, heavy and cloying, to the air of his kitchen. He shuffled to the counter, his usual pep absent, and mechanically began kneading the dough. His son, Leo, a whirlwind of energy usually, was strangely quiet, glued to the kitchen window, watching the dough rise in a small bowl. "Dad," Leo finally said, his voice hushed, "can I try making a sourdough starter?" Arthur barely registered the question. He mumbled an affirmative, his mind a million miles away, lost in a fog of general discontent.