As the morning sun filtered through gingham curtains, the scent of cinnamon buns wrapped around them like a warm hug. Flour-dusted countertops gleamed alongside jars of pastel macarons. “I almost dropped my spoon when I saw it.” “A single blueberry, lying on the ledger.” “But what would a stray berry do on the accounting books?” “Maybe someone’s trying to send a message.” “We haven’t had fresh blueberries since last Tuesday.” “The batch arrived yesterday. We used all of them in the muffins.” “Then where did this one come from?” A bell tinkled overhead as the door opened. No one entered, but the breeze fluttered the register’s receipts. “Do you think Mrs. Caldwell left it?” “She was here just an hour ago, humming her favorite tune.” “Then why slip a berry instead of humming?” Silence settled, broken only by the oven’s soft hum. “Could it be a clue?” “Or just a misplaced pastry.” “You know me. I don’t believe in coincidences.” They both stared at the single, plump berry. Somewhere between the sugar and the dough, a secret waited to be peeled open. “And what will we do next?” Outside, the street lay quiet, unaware of the mystery kneading itself inside.