Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAJFT4ZT434VP7S90SR2WB

*Butterscotch and vanilla swirled from the oven as Lila stirred a pot of apple cider, steam blurring her glasses. The bell jangled, and Mrs. Higgins—her hair in a dusting of flour—plucked a cinnamon roll from the rack, crumbs falling like snow. “He’s here again,” she said, nodding toward the corner. A man in a charcoal coat sat there, staring at a cup of coffee that hadn’t cooled, his gaze fixed on the display case. His hand hovered near a jar of lemon curd, Lila noticed—*their* curd, made from her grandmother’s tree, the one the mayor had tried to buy a gallon of last month, offering twice the price. “Quentin,” Mrs. Higgins muttered. “He comes every Saturday now. Orders the same black coffee, doesn’t eat. Just watches.” Lila glanced at the jar. The lid was slightly askew. “Maybe he’s waiting for someone.” “Waiting for *nothing*,” Mrs. Higgins said, slamming down a plate of biscuits. “My Ralph would’ve done the same. If he’d lingered this long, he’d have spilled his coffee. Not that he would—Ralph never wasted a drop. But this one… he’s got eyes like a goldfish.” Quentin shifted, and Lila saw it: a frayed edge of paper peeking from his coat pocket, half-hidden by a crumpled receipt. She leaned closer, noticing the ink smudge—a “T” at the bottom, fading like it had been in rain. “Mrs. Higgins,” she said, steadying her voice, “could you bring me the sugar cubes? The small ones, from the top shelf.” As her friend turned, Lila set down her spoon. The paper peeked out farther, and she caught a word: *Tillman*. Quentin’s coffee still hadn’t cooled. The bell jangled again, and Mrs. Higgins returned, frowning. “Top shelf’s empty. Must’ve been someone else—” She stopped, following Lila’s gaze. Quentin was gone. The lemon curd jar, however, was now nigh-full. Lila smiled, taking a bite of biscuit. “Ralph would’ve noticed,” Mrs. Higgins said. Lila nodded. “Ralph noticed everything.” The coffee cup, still untouched, steamed silently.