Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA7EDRSKTMY80Y6698HNAQ

You baked these earlier than usual; the lemon drizzle is still dewy. Someone left the back door unlocked again and the oven timer did a midnight duet with the wind. That explains the flour footprints on the stoop—wide, hurried, like someone carrying secrets and a sack of sugar. Secrets don't rise like bread. They fester under the display glass until someone asks the right question. Did you see the note tucked under the jam tarts? “For emergencies only,” in Mrs. Pritchard's looping hand. I saw it. I saw the smear on the note that matches the purple scarf you always borrow. You think she left it on purpose? Mrs. Pritchard never leaves things to chance, only to recipes. Recipes and remembrances, remember? She called this morning, voice too steady. Asked about the walnut loaf and whether anyone else knew the proportion of honey to crust. Why honey? She never used honey. Ever. Maybe someone wanted the old honey measure back in her ledger. Maybe someone wanted the bakery's backroom key. Maybe someone wanted the ledger for a recipe, and found something else instead. Like a ledger entry that doesn't belong to baking. Like a name you don't want in your buttercream.