Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1GQQB3P405VWCP9FDBEF7S

The bell over the bakery door gave a polite jingle, letting in a ribbon of cold air and the smell of rain-wet pavement. Behind the glass case, lemon tarts gleamed beside sugared scones, and a loaf of rosemary bread cooled on a rack by the window. “You rearranged the display.” “It needed brightening. Half this town comes in looking like thunderclouds.” “Is that why there’s a peony in the tip jar?” “It was either that or listen to Mrs. Pembroke complain the place lacked charm.” A soft clatter came from the kitchen. Both pairs of eyes slid toward the swinging door. “You heard that too.” “I’m choosing to believe it was the mixer settling.” “The mixer is unplugged.” Outside, rain tapped the pane. Inside, the cinnamon-and-butter warmth suddenly felt a touch too still. “Didn’t you say you were alone this morning?” “I was. Unless pie crusts have learned to lurk.” The kitchen door trembled, then eased open a fraction. Flour drifted across the floor like pale dust. “Well, that’s not unsettling at all.” “Take the rolling pin.” “Why do you get the rolling pin?” “Because you’re holding the bread knife.” “I’m holding it for jam.” “At seven in the morning?” “I like to feel prepared.” Another clink, sharper this time. “If that’s a burglar, he’s about to be defeated by baked goods.” “In this bakery, that seems only fair.”