The morning sun slanted through dusty windows as the smell of fresh brioche warmed the air. The tiny bell above the door hadn't chimed in an hour, leaving only flour-dusted floors and a low hum from the oven. “Mind if I ask a favor?” “Is this about the letter on the counter?” “I found it tucked inside the flour sack this morning.” “It’s addressed to Old Mrs. Porter, but the handwriting looks frantic.” “Why would someone slip a note into the bakery supply?” “Maybe this place is more than just pastries.” They exchanged glances across the worn oak table. Outside, a delivery truck rumbled past the pastel storefront. “Could someone be spying on Mrs. Porter?” “If so, they picked the right disguise.” The baker lifted a cinnamon roll from a steaming rack, cradling it like evidence. Spotting a tiny stain of red on the parchment, they tilted it toward the light. “It’s not jam,” they whispered. “Could be blood.” “Should we call anyone?” “Not until we know who sent it.” A hush fell over the room, broken only by the tick of the wall clock and the distant sizzle of a coffee machine. Numb excitement fluttered between them as dough and secrets lingered in the sweet, uneasy silence.