The air, thick with the scent of warm yeast and cinnamon sugar, did little to soothe the jangled nerves. “I found this propped against the door this morning. Right beside the milk bottles.” A small, woody sprig lay on the flour-dusted counter, its needles a deep, somber green. “I nearly swept it up with the flour. Thought it was just a bit of garden debris.” “It’s a cypress sprig. How very odd.” “It’s a prank. The Henderson boys, probably. They think they’re hilarious.” “On a Tuesday? And left so deliberately? No, this feels like a secret, not a joke. A message, even.” “A message? What message? ‘Congratulations on your sourdough’?” “It’s a symbol of mourning. Of remembrance. The question isn't *what* it means. The question is who died, and why are they telling you about it?”