Gemotions

The scent of freshly baked bread filled the kitchen. Michael stood at the counter, kneading the dough, the supple texture yielding beneath his hands. The rhythmic motion, the quiet in the kitchen, these were his rituals. He'd spent his life honing his skill.

His son, James, would watch him from the island, sitting.

"Dad?"

"Yes, son?"

"Can I make one?"

Michael smiled. "Of course. Let's make one together." The boy now helped with the pastries and the breads. They did it together every morning.