Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8RGQAC70PDWCBJJ0W217Y

The bell above the door jingled, and Elsie Hargrove looked up from dusting the sugar jar, her flour-dusted smock rustling. Sunlight slanted through the transom, gilding the display of honey oat scones and blueberry muffins. “Morning, Elsie,” said the voice, gruff but warm. “Usual—black coffee, and a spinach scone, if you’ve got it.” She nodded, reaching for the jar. “Spinach’s fresh. Got a couple extra this week; your wife says the grandkids love ’em. And… uh—” She paused, her free hand brushing the edge of the empty lemon bar tray. “—ran out of lemon bars. Must’ve sold three batches yesterday.” “Strange,” the voice mused. A beat, then: “Saw a man in a tan coat by the window this mornin’. Asked if there was a ‘blackberry loaf’ ready. I said you’d be back by nine.” Elsie’s fingers tightened on the scone. The blackberry loaf was for Mrs. Peabody—her late husband’s recipe, for their 50th anniversary next week. She’d mentioned it to the man in the post office last Tuesday. “Thanks,” she said, sliding the scone across the counter. “I’ll… check the back.” The bell jingled again. Footsteps receded. Elsie stared at the empty lemon bar tray, then at the clock. Nine-fifteen. A shadow flickered in the window. *Another customer.* (199 words)