Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8R33DPP3XN6FFKCMW242T

Sun slants through gingham-curtained windows, dusting the bakery’s flour-dusted oak counter with honeyed light. A chipped porcelain teacup clinks against a saucer as someone stirs lemon curd into their chamomile, the scent of freshly baked sourdough tangling with cinnamon rolls cooling on a wire rack. The front door’s brass bell tinkles faintly—no customer, just a gust of crisp autumn air carrying the distant clink of the blacksmith’s hammer. “Did you check the back pantry’s top shelf? The one with the jam jars stacked to the ceiling, the ones Grandma canned last summer?” “Twice. Even moved the rhubarb preserves—sticky mess, got it on my apron. It’s not there.” “Odd. It’s been hanging by the dough mixer for forty years. Grandma never let anyone touch her vintage rolling pin, let alone misplace it.” “Unless someone didn’t misplace it. The lock on the side door was jiggled this morning—found a bent paperclip on the step.” “Really? I thought that was just a kid’s prank. You don’t think…?” “Not sure. But Mrs. Hale mentioned seeing a stranger in a tweed coat loitering by the back alley yesterday. Said he kept staring at the bakery’s hand-painted sign.” “Tweed coat? The same one who asked about Grandma’s rolling pin at the farmers’ market last week?” “Might be. Let’s check the security cam footage—wait, the memory card’s gone. Just perfect.”