Gemotions

He found the advertisement on a bus stop. "Giacomo's Gourmet Gnocchi: A Taste of Italy!" It was a picture of the exact dish, the exact sauce, the exact sprinkle of parmesan cheese that his grandmother, Nonna Emilia, had taught him. He’d spent countless hours perfecting that recipe, a legacy of love and family. Now, it was plastered across the city, claiming to be the creation of some unknown chef with a name he didn't recognize.

His hands felt clammy. A coldness spread through his chest. He stood rooted to the spot, the bustling city noise fading into a distant hum. He had to sit down. He walked into a nearby cafe, needing a place to sit.

He rubbed his temples, trying to clear his head. He ordered a coffee, staring out the window, his gaze unfocused. He imagined his grandmother's smile, her gentle hands kneading the dough. A sharp pang of something unpleasant stung him.

The coffee grew cold in his hand. He gripped the cup tightly, the porcelain pressing into his skin. He needed to understand. He had to know.