Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9VKGA856EJ9Q6BDHW1NRM

The bakery’s back prep room hums with the residual warmth of the morning’s croissant oven, flour dust coating the metal worktable’s edge where a lopsided lemon scone sits abandoned. “Did you check the sugar bin’s bottom? That’s where she hid the gingerbread cutters last Christmas.” “Twice. Dug through expired yeast tins too—found a crumpled 2022 grocery list, but no sign of it.” “The prize sourdough recipe? The one she was going to enter in the town fair?” “Gone. Her apron’s draped over the dough hook, coffee still steaming in her chipped mug when I arrived at six.” “Anyone stop by after closing? I saw the back door propped open on my walk home, thought she was taking out trash.” “Should’ve said something. Fair’s in three days—without it, she’ll pull out. I heard a storage closet rustle at midnight, but wrote it off as the stray cat.” A clatter from the front display case freezes them; a peppermint stick jar topples, scattering across the floor. One roll reaches the worktable, stopping beside a faint, unfamiliar footprint etched in the flour. The air thickens, cinnamon’s sweet scent sharpening with unease, neither daring to speak as they stare at the tiny, scuffed impression marring the dust.