Run: 2026-03-09-01KK9QJ1R29DWMS1KM039NJAX3

The bell over the bakery door gave its usual polite jingle, though the morning had already turned strange. Clara was sliding a tray of cinnamon rolls onto the front counter when she noticed the mud on the floorboards—three neat footprints leading from the door to the glass case, then stopping as if the owner had simply vanished into the scent of sugar and yeast. “Tell me you’ve taken up ghost stories before breakfast.” “I’d prefer that to explaining those.” Outside, Market Street was waking slowly: the hardware shop unlatching, the florist setting out buckets of daffodils, the church clock grumbling toward eight. Inside, warm air hugged the windows, but a draft slipped from the pantry door. “You locked up last night?” “With my own hands. Twice. After the mayor’s wife forgot her lemon scones and nearly rattled the hinges off.” Clara bent to inspect the prints. Dark, clay-rich mud. Not from Main Street. Riverbank mud. “That’s not the odd part.” “It gets odder?” On the cake stand, tucked beneath a paper doily, lay a silver cufflink shaped like a fox’s head. “Well. That doesn’t belong to the muffin crowd.” “No. It belongs to the man who was arguing in here yesterday about the historical society ledger.” “The one who swore nobody in Maple Hollow could keep a secret?” A pause settled between the bread racks. “Looks as if somebody tried very hard.”