Agnes hunched over the counter, the fluorescent lights of the bakery casting a sterile glow on the untouched batch of scones. Each one, a perfect miniature mountain, sat waiting. They wouldn't sell. Not anymore. She traced the familiar lines of the handwritten recipe card, the ink smudged with years of flour dust. "Lady Eleanor's Exquisite Mornings," the article had gushed, showcasing the very same scones, now a sensation, under a different name, a different owner.
Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms. She hadn’t slept well since the newspaper arrived, tossing and turning. The familiar ache in her shoulders felt heavier today, the weight of the forgotten, the appropriated, pressing down. She felt as though the world was closing in on her.
The doorbell chimed, a cheerful sound that felt like a pinprick to her already frayed nerves. It was Mrs. Peterson, her most loyal customer. Agnes managed a weak smile, but it felt as though the muscles in her face wouldn’t cooperate.
"Just a plain scone today, dear?" Mrs. Peterson asked, her usual warmth missing from her voice. The words hung in the air, a tacit acknowledgement of the empty shelves. Agnes just nodded, her throat suddenly tight.