Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1GW1S8Z0G9G1GSX9BA1AFX

The bell over the bakery door gave its cheerful jingle as warm air, sweet with cinnamon and yeast, wrapped around the little shop. Outside, rain silvered Main Street; inside, the glass case gleamed with sticky buns, lemon squares, and a lone blackberry tart that looked almost too perfect to eat. “You’re early.” “So are you. That alone should worry me.” “I always come early on Thursdays.” “Not in a storm. Not unless something’s wrong.” A china cup clicked against its saucer. Near the window, the old clock ticked louder than it ought to have. “Did you hear?” “In a town this size? I heard three versions before breakfast. Which one are we pretending is true?” “The one where the mayor collapsed face-first into the rhubarb display at the Harvest Committee meeting.” “That part is true, then.” “And the part where he had Agnes Bell’s missing locket in his pocket?” A pause stretched, thin as spun sugar. “Who told you that?” “No one told me. I saw it.” “You were there?” “I dropped off the éclairs. He was already on the floor, and the locket was glinting beside his hand.” “Beside his hand is not in his pocket.” “It was in his pocket when Deputy Morris turned him over.” “That’s not possible.” “Why not?” Because I put it in the flour tin yesterday.” The rain tapped harder at the window. Between them, the blackberry tart suddenly seemed to be listening.