Gemotions

The aroma hit Amelia like a physical blow. It was the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg, blooming from a food stall she’d walked past a hundred times, but never truly *noticed*. Today, though, it snagged at her senses, pulling her back. Back to her grandmother’s kitchen, the warmth of the oven on her face, the rustle of aprons, the laughter.

She paused, craning her neck to see the sign. "Grandma Rosie's Spicy Snaps." Spicy snaps? Her own recipe, passed down through generations, was for ginger snaps. Sweet, not spicy. This stall owner was either a liar or a thief.

Amelia’s hand clenched around the strap of her bag. She walked forward, the knots of doubt tightening in her stomach. She needed to know. The stall owner, a young man with a friendly face, beamed at her. "Try one! They're flying off the shelves!"

She accepted a cookie. The first bite was like a punch to the gut. It was *her* recipe. The spice, the texture, the subtle burn at the end. She'd tweaked the proportions for *years*. A burning sensation rose in her chest, a potent mixture of pride and something else, something she couldn't name.