Fog lingered along the cobblestone street as dawn approached slowly. Detective Marlowe’s footsteps echoed, steady and deliberate in the silence. A gloved hand clutching a notebook revealed his practiced, seasoned nerves. Lights flickered inside the bakery, promising warmth amidst the chill. Mrs. Crane appeared distraught, her apron stained and voice trembling quietly. “They found him there,” she whispered, gesturing toward the wooden counter. A crimson pool marred the flour, stark against the white. Marlowe knelt carefully, inspecting the lifeless figure sprawled near pastries. A single rose rested beside the victim’s open, empty hand. Somewhere outside, a clock chimed, announcing a new mystery’s beginning.