Gemotions

"Impossible," Martha muttered, her breath fogging up the bakery window. Inside, a long line snaked towards the counter, all eager for a taste of "Mrs. Gable’s Gingerbread Delights." The gingerbread men were meticulously decorated, each one a spitting image of her own creations.

She clutched her handbag tighter, her knuckles white. She had shared her recipe with a friend a year ago, a seemingly innocuous act. Now, the entire town was clamoring for the very recipe she'd confided. A wave of nausea rolled over her.

She pulled the door open, the bell above it jingling merrily. She walked straight to the counter, her eyes fixed on the pastry chef, a woman with a suspiciously familiar smile. “That gingerbread," Martha began, her voice barely a whisper, "Is it really homemade?”