Gemotions

The radio blared through the house as Amelia prepared dinner. Then, the announcer, voice full of enthusiastic praise, began to describe a dish. A dish she knew all too well. It was her grandmother’s "Lemon Lavender Shortbread," a family tradition, a memory baked into every crumb. The radio described it as the signature treat of a famous bakery.

Her hands froze mid-slice. The knife, usually an extension of her own movement, felt heavy, unwieldy. She switched off the radio. Silence fell, broken only by the rhythmic tick of the kitchen clock. The silence offered no comfort.

She went to the pantry and pulled out her grandmother's handwritten recipe card. The paper, worn soft with time, held the familiar handwriting. She traced the loops of the letters with her fingertip. This couldn’t be right. Her heart thumped in her chest.

She went to the couch and sat. She felt a hollowness in her chest.