Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9BVZTM989Q3538Y64XNR3

Sunlight spilled across the checkered floor of the town bakery, turning flour into soft snowfall. The bell over the door tinkled with every customer, and the air tasted faintly of cinnamon, sugar, and rain. At the counter stood two regulars: one with a notebook brimming with clues, the other with a rolling pin and a stake in the community's whispers. "Morning breeze smells like cinnamon and trouble, doesn't it?" "Only when the vanilla bean disappears that fast." "Last night the recipe card vanished from the back counter." "And with it, a promise to bake the town's fate." "We found flour on the floor where no flour should be." "Footprints, tiny as fingernails, lead toward the storage room." "Then someone tied the clock's hands to hide the time." "Or maybe the clock hid the truth in chimes." "The case won't crack itself; we need to think like bakers." "That means testing suspects by what they crave most." "Like croissants who envy lemon tarts and haunt the kitchen." "Or the supplier who hates missing ingredients and debts." "Let's check the spice cabinet and the ledger in silence." "And listen for echoes of footsteps behind the flour bin." "Till then, keep your eyes on the clock and your hands on the dough."