The old oak door opened with a gentle chime. Sunshine spilled across the flour-dusted counters, where rows of golden crusts gleamed invitingly. “I’m telling you, the cinnamon buns are vanishing before the tray even cools.” “Maybe someone’s sneaking a midnight snack.” A drawer stood open, its contents scattered like a staccato of paper. One recipe card lay crumpled on the floor. “What if it’s not hunger driving them?” Her heart skipped a beat as she stooped to pick up the stained card. The handwriting was unmistakable—her grandmother’s secret blend. “This recipe has never left these walls.” A distant rumble of the mixer droned across the room. The bell jingled again, though no customer followed. “Did you hear that?” Footsteps. A shadow pooled beneath the rolling pin rack. Heat flared in her cheeks. “Who are you really?” The figure hesitated, then turned a pale face toward her. “We only wanted a taste.” The words hung in the warm air, sweet as sugar, sharp as betrayal. She clenched the battered card, determination settling like dough beneath fingertips. “Then you’ll have to earn it.” Outside, the midday sun flickered through lace curtains, promising that what started with stolen sweetness might end with a recipe for justice.