Golden morning light spilled through the lace curtains of the Maplewood Bakery, dust motes dancing over pastel macarons and sugar-dusted scones. The hush of dawn was broken only by the soft hum of the mixer and a cautious whisper. "Did you really see it?" "I swear it wasn’t a crumb or a misplaced spoon. It was a tiny key, barely the size of a fingernail." "A key? For a house? Or… something else?" "That’s just it. It didn’t match any lock around here—and I checked every antique trinket box in town." A crack in the ceramic tile sounded like thunder. "If someone stole it, they’d have to know it’s here." "Or they think it’s somewhere else already." Outside, a bell chimed as the first customer pulled open the door. Flour-dusted hands paused. "Promise you won’t keep this secret from the sheriff?" A breath. "Only if you promise to keep an eye on the blueberry muffins. They disappear faster than suspects in these parts." Soft laughter echoed amid the rows of pastries, but shadows lingered beneath the display case. An old recipe book lay open on a nearby stool, its pages smeared with flour and faintly curved as if someone had hidden more than memories between the leaves.