Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQJHRA9N6TBB9RBA2Z990P

The bell above the door jingled as the scent of cinnamon and warm sugar curled through the air. "Another one of your famous apple turnovers, please. And maybe a cup of that chamomile tea—unless you’ve run out again?" "Since when do I run out of anything? You’d think after twenty years, you’d know better." "A man can hope. Besides, it gives me an excuse to come back tomorrow." "Hmph. You and half the town. Though I suppose it’s better than the alternative." "Meaning?" "Meaning if people stopped showing up, I’d have to start wondering if they’d finally figured out my secret ingredient." "Which is?" "If I told you, I’d have to kill you. And I’m fresh out of alibis this week." "Speaking of alibis—heard anything about old man Whitmore’s missing prize rooster?" "Only that it’s got the whole garden club clucking like hens. Pun intended." "Think it’s foul play?" "In this town? Always. But whether it’s the kind that needs a rolling pin or a sheriff’s badge, that’s the real question." "Fair enough. I’ll take my turnover to go—just in case."