Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9ZM9D19RN33AW59WWJMPQ

Flour dust motes danced in the sun slanting through the bakery’s gingham-curtained window, cinnamon curling from a tray of just-baked sticky buns. A cloth swiped slow over a chipped oak counter, pausing at the empty brass hook where the town’s heirloom rolling pin—carved with wild roses by the founding baker—usually hung. “Thought I left it here after shaping the sourdough last night.” “Town fair’s tomorrow—we needed it for the best pie contest demonstration; judges always ask about the pin.” “Did you lock up? I swear I saw a stranger lingering by the back door, hood pulled low, sniffing the rye loaves like he was hunting something more than a snack.” “Noticed a pine needle tangled in the back screen this morning. Only the old grove on Maple Lane has those—no one from town goes there this time of year, fallen branches block the path.” “Should we tell the sheriff? Or check the grove first, see if the pin’s tucked under a bough—maybe they dropped it fleeing.” “Let’s grab a scone first. Can’t solve anything on an empty stomach, and these currant ones are still warm enough to melt butter.” A hand lifted a scone, steam curling into their face, and the cloth clattered softly to the counter as they reached for a paper napkin.