Gemotions

Agnes stared at the glossy magazine cover. “The Cloud Cake: A Parisian Delight!” it shrieked in bold lettering, alongside a picture of her exact recipe, the one she’d sold to Mrs. Peterson’s bakery for a pittance, years ago. Her stomach churned. She’d always known it was a good cake, the light, airy texture a result of a secret she'd guarded for years. She'd envisioned someone, anyone, enjoying the sweet, subtle flavor. Now, seeing it plastered everywhere, the fame of it, was a bitter pill to swallow. She twisted the corner of her apron, a habit that had resurfaced lately.

The aroma of freshly baked bread filled her small kitchen, a comfort she usually found solace in. Today, though, it felt hollow. She absentmindedly dropped a pinch of flour onto the already dusty counter. She should be happy for Mrs. Peterson. But the bakery had grown into a chain. The thought sparked a sharp ache in her chest.

Agnes sighed, running a hand over her tired eyes. She reached for her own ingredients, a familiar ritual. Perhaps she would make another cake, just for herself. Though the pleasure she once took in baking had somehow dimmed.