Gemotions

I always knew where to find her, in the bakery, the air filled with the scent of rising dough and sweet butter. The woman, with her flour-dusted apron and knowing smile, was always there. She had always made the best bread. The bakery, its warmth, its smells, was a place I'd always known.

I entered the bakery. The shelves were bare. The woman behind the counter was a stranger. "She’s gone," the woman said. "Retired to the country."

My legs felt weak. The bakery seemed colder and less welcoming. My chest felt tight.