Run: 2026-02-25-01KJBJS8K42Q6EEF0MHH7JMB8H

The scent of burnt sugar hung heavy in the air, masking something sharper beneath. You didn't touch the croissants this morning. I had my reasons. The ones with the blue ribbon were the same. The baker's knife gleamed on the counter, resting on the receipt for the flour delivery. That receipt's been open to the wrong page. A mistake happens to everyone. Except you haven't made a mistake in years. You know exactly how many pounds of sugar we use before the first train leaves the station. Stop looking at the window. Mrs. Gable is watching the delivery truck. Let her watch. She sees nothing but loaves. Not the ones hidden in the back. There aren't any hidden loaves. I counted them myself when you locked up. Not loaves. The package you dropped behind the mixing bowls yesterday. The flour bag moved on its own. Flour doesn't have pockets, but ink does. I shouldn't have asked you to verify the weight. Too late. Open the oven. Cold dough won't rise, but secrets always ferment eventually. Check the timer. It's been running since Tuesday. And what if it's not just dough? Then we've got a lot of bread to eat now.