Morning light filtered through gingham curtains as the scent of fresh cinnamon buns filled the air. Flour-dusted counters gleamed under a soft glow, and rows of pastel macarons rested like tiny jewels. The bell above the door jingled as someone entered, shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. “Did you find anything unusual in the delivery box?” “A single envelope slipped beneath the brown paper—no stamp, no return address.” “Ooh, that’s mysterious. Was there a note inside?” “Just a scrap of parchment with a single word: SUGAR.” A light breeze stirred the lace tablecloth where a half-eaten raspberry tart sat. Crumbs scattered like footprints. “I thought sugar was our busiest ingredient, not a clue.” “Unless someone’s sending a message. Look at the rose-shaped cookie on this tray—it matches the sketch on the parchment.” A soft knock sounded at the back door, then silence. “Whoever it is, they know this place well.” “Maybe someone who’s watched me bake every Tuesday.” The oven timer pinged, and the warm aroma of honey loaf swooped in. Fingers clasped around a mug of chamomile tea. Outside, the midday lull wrapped the town in calm, but inside the bakery, anticipation simmered like simmering caramel.