Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked bread usually soothed Mark, but today it only amplified the feeling of displacement. He’d spent years perfecting his sourdough starter. He knew it like a friend. It had become a ritual of comfort during hard times. He saw the bread, "Le Pain Sublime" featured at a chic bakery across town.

He went to the bakery. The bread was his, the same crust, the same airy crumb, the identical sour tang, a taste he had cultivated painstakingly over countless failures. He stood at the door for several minutes before turning back.

He clenched his jaw, swallowing hard. The bread was a masterpiece. He had made it, with his own two hands. Now it was someone else’s success. He felt a profound sense of… absence, a hollowness that seemed to stretch out into the empty street.