Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTZYJ6H6YSKVXYGBWZAEJQ1

The scent of yeast and burnt sugar clings to the rafters above the chipped ceramic display case, where the morning’s lemon shortbread sits lopsided next to a gap where a jar of prize-winning lavender jam should rest. A handwritten chalkboard sign above the case lists today’s scone flavors, and a jar of peppermints sits by the register. A crumb-covered wooden spoon leans against the stand mixer, left mid-stir as the morning rush winds down. Did you check the back storage shelf? Mrs. Hale dropped off that jam last night after judging the town quilt contest. I swept right behind the register ten minutes ago—ain’t a jar within spitting distance. The cash drawer’s still full, so it ain’t a smash-and-grab robber. Wait, did you leave it on the delivery porch this morning? The teen who drops off clover honey bins stopped by twice before opening up. No, I locked the front door before I fetched the yeast from the cooler. Wait—Marnie stopped by for a free scone to go fifteen minutes ago, right? She did, but she always bolts right after grabbing her treat, never hangs around long enough to slip a jar into her tote. Unless… Hold on, the new beekeeper came in yesterday asking for a spot to sell his wildflower honey. He lingered by the jam display real long, said he was scouting pairing ideas. Oh! I meant to tell you he complained the glass on that shelf was smudged, wiped at it with his sleeve while chatting about his hives by the old orchard down Maple Lane.