Gemotions

Rain lashed against the window of the small bakery, mirroring the tremor in Edgar's hands as he held the newspaper. There it was, plastered across the food section: "Chef Antoine's Delectable Duck Confit." The picture showed the dish perfectly, the skin crackling, the meat succulent. It was his recipe, the one he’d poured his soul into, the one that had failed to impress any restaurant owner.

He set the paper down, his chest feeling hollow. He'd tried, for years, to get someone to serve his dish. The countless tastings, the rejection letters. He'd even given the recipe away, hoping it would find a home.

Edgar took a deep breath, the damp air smelling of wet concrete. He walked to the kitchen, his steps slow. He decided to make a pot of tea and eat a plain biscuit. He thought he should try his hand at baking again, maybe using a new recipe.