Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTY36538XP96PMN2KQM60EF

The bell above the bakery’s front door jingles soft as a last-minute customer ducks in, rain dripping off their wool plaid scarf onto the checkered welcome mat. A tray of warm cinnamon rolls steams behind the glass counter, and a jar of wildflower honey sits open by the cash register, sticky rings spreading across the marble. That’s the third time someone’s left a bundle of clover on my back porch this week, huh? Crinkling tissue paper around a dusted lavender scone, you’d think they’d leave a note instead of vanishing faster than the day-old croissants. Oh, wait—last week’s bouquet had a tiny tag that said “for the maker of the best chocolate chip cookies.” Did you try the new lavender latte today? It’s so smooth, tastes like the hike up to the county meadow last weekend. Yeah, steeped the lavender buds in steamed milk overnight, didn’t overdo it. The register dings as a crumpled twenty gets slid across the counter. Did you hear about Mrs. Hale’s missing prize peony bush? It was dug up overnight from her front yard. No, I’ve been swamped with church bake sale orders—didn’t notice. Some high school kid saw a hooded figure hovering by her fence around dawn. Oh, that’s weird. I’ll keep an eye out on my morning bread run. Thanks—you’re a lifesaver. Could I grab a dozen of those chocolate chip cookies to drop off for Mrs. Hale, too? Absolutely, on the house.