The newspaper lay open on the worn wooden counter of the tiny bakery. The critic’s words, a surgical dissection of his sourdough bread, stung like a slap across the face. "Uninspired," "lumpy," and the most cutting, "a pale imitation of a true artisan loaf." David's hands trembled as he picked up a flour-dusted apron, the familiar fabric offering little comfort.
He walked into the bakery. The morning sun streamed through the window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The smells, usually a source of joy – the yeasty aroma of rising dough, the sweet scent of baking pastries – now felt like reminders of his inadequacy. He opened the oven, the heat washing over him.
He felt the prickle of sweat on his forehead. He usually loved this routine, kneading, shaping, nurturing the bread. It was a meditation, a ritual. Today, it felt like a pointless exercise. He felt a deep weariness, a profound sense of loss. He poured himself a glass of water, watching the condensation bead on the sides.
He looked at the empty display cases, filled each morning with the fruits of his labour. The thought of starting again, of facing another day, felt overwhelming. He let his head fall into his hands. He felt utterly depleted.