Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked sourdough filled the kitchen, a scent that had once been synonymous with comfort and satisfaction. Now, for Eleanor, the smell was simply… there. She watched, a silent observer, as her son, Max, meticulously kneaded the dough, his brow furrowed in concentration. The process, once a cherished ritual, felt like a distant memory, a forgotten language. "Mom, do you think I should add more salt?" Max asked, his voice laced with concern. Eleanor stared at the ceiling, offering a vague, “Whatever you think is best.” A sense of detachment swirled around her, a heavy, shapeless thing.