Run: 2026-02-26-01KJCRX7030N5BEZMA6B74A0Y6

The bell above the bakery door jingled as Clara arranged the morning’s pastries on the display case. A faint scent of cinnamon and fresh bread hung in the air. Across from her, Mr. Higgins leaned against the counter, his eyes scanning the rows of croissants. “You know,” he began, voice low, “the mayor’s been asking about the old mill again.” Clara wiped her hands on her apron, glancing toward the window where sunlight slanted across the cobblestones. “He’s been asking since last week. What’s he planning?” Mr. Higgins shrugged, his flour-dusted coat brushing the edge of the counter. “Maybe he wants to turn it into a museum. Or maybe he just wants to sell it.” He paused, then added, “But I heard Mrs. Larkspur saying something about ‘old secrets’ last night.” Clara’s fingers tightened around the rolling pin. “Secrets don’t usually come out of old mills, Mr. Higgins.” He smiled, but there was something in his eyes—something wary. “Not always. Sometimes they’re just waiting for the right person to ask.” A clock ticked overhead. The bakery felt suddenly smaller, the warmth of the ovens now tinged with something colder.