Sunrise glowed through quaint window decals announcing "Maplewood Bakery." Morning light spilled across stout oak tables, a quilt of flour motes twirling above rows of brioche. Etta placed a fresh tray on the counter. Eliza perched on a stool, peering at a crumpled parchment. “That scribble at the bottom—‘come back before dusk.’” “Who’d leave a note in the apple turnovers?” She lifted a crust, revealing a twinge of something gold. “Could it be a clue?” “Or a prank by the new arrival on Maple Street.” The bell tinkled as a stray breeze nudged open the door. “I swear I heard pipes clanging past midnight.” “That’s the boiler in back.” “Should we check it out?” A flicker of worry passed between them as the scent of cinnamon buns mingled with something metallic. They padded toward the pantry door, dough-dusted footprints echoing on worn tiles. “If someone’s hiding in there.” “Or maybe they dropped this.” Etta stooped to lift a tiny silver locket from the floor, etched with a delicate rose. Eliza drew a shaky breath. “Should we knock?” The locket glinted in Etta’s palm. “Let’s at least see who’s inside.”