Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9ET97MXZB016Q6BPBJRK9

The bakery’s back prep counter hums with the leftover warmth of overnight cinnamon rolls, flour dust coating the chipped ceramic mixing bowl propped by the dough hook. A crumpled handwritten order slip for lemon tarts flutters near the dented sugar shaker when the first words stir the pre-dawn silence. “Did you check the back pantry for it? The blue tin with the sunflower engraving—my grandma’s, the one I used for the peach pie test batch?” “Twice. Even moved the jar of spiced apple butter that’s been gathering dust since Mrs. Henderson stopped dropping off her homemade preserves last winter.” “Odd. It didn’t vanish on its own—someone must’ve taken it. Last time I saw it, you were setting it out with the sample slices for the farmers’ market sign-up yesterday.” “Thought I locked the back door before closing. Swear I did. But the screen’s got a new tear, right there by the milk crate of rolled oats I fetched from the delivery truck.” “Maybe it’s tied to the way the market’s sign-up sheets went missing mid-afternoon. Small things, piling up like flour on the counter.” A clatter of a metal cooling rack shifting cuts the thought short; one leans to peer through the pantry’s splintered crack, the other’s hand hovering over the flour sifter, ready to scrawl a note about the tear on the crumpled order slip before the first customers trickle in.