Gemotions

Agnes stared out the rain-streaked window of her small apartment. A grey, pervasive dampness seemed to seep into her bones, mirroring the hollowness that had settled deep within her. She'd spent the last year meticulously perfecting her grandmother’s apple crumble recipe. It was the only tangible link she had left to the woman, the only thing she felt truly connected to. Now, scrolling through a food blog, she saw it: "Granny Smith's Sensational Crumble," a dish identical to hers, lauded by critics and featured in a glossy magazine.

A tremor ran through her. Her hands, usually deft, trembled as she clicked on the link. The pictures… the descriptions… It was her crumble, every single detail, but the name was different, the praise was directed at someone else.

She wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to physically hold herself together. A sigh escaped her, a puff of air in the quiet room. The recipe’s fame, she realised with a pang, was a constant reminder of everything she was missing, a void she tried to fill with flour and fruit.