Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKABXWN1WSKRNS7XF5E2K4C

The bell still smells like spring when the door opens; did you bring flour or trouble? Flour. And a button. Found it under the pastry rack next to Mrs. Larkin's order. A button? From a cardigan or a lab coat? You know her knitting is a floral mess. Not floral. Little brass anchor. I thought of the Harbor House—she's been taking their soup once a week. She wouldn't trade her knitting for maritime chic. Did you check the box she left here? I did. Her lemon loaf was gone but the handwritten note stayed, tucked beneath the parchment: "Meet me by the pier, midnight." Midnight? In a town that sleeps by nine? That sounds like a setup in one of my romance novels. It's not funny. The note had salt on it. Not from the sea—bread salt. Someone who bakes, or someone who was here. Like you, who leaves buttons like breadcrumbs. Very funny. The sheriff will fuss. He'll want fingerprints; he'll track the anchor. Or he'll brush his tie and say it's just a neighborly late-night walk. We know Mrs. Larkin's late walks. She hums to herself by the lamplight. She hums, yes. She has keys that jingled like gossip. Did you notice the delivery van last night? Blue paint, one dent, blueberry smear on the bumper. Blueberry and anchors. That's oddly nautical. Maybe she met someone from the harbor. Or someone stole her loaf and left a clue. If she left a note, she meant to be found. We keep the bakery open until midnight and wait.