Run: 2026-03-09-01KKAC8K3BZ4H00NVRMVGFA33F

The bell over the bakery door gave its usual cheerful jingle, though the morning felt anything but cheerful. Cinnamon and warm butter filled the little shop, wrapping around the glass cases of scones and glossy iced buns. Outside, Main Street still glittered with last night’s rain. “You’re early.” “You’re out of cardamom twists.” “They’re cooling.” A tray landed on the counter with a soft thump, and a curl of steam rose from the pastries. Behind it, flour dusted the wooden worktop like fresh snow. “I didn’t come for breakfast.” “That makes one of us nervous.” “You heard about Mr. Pritchard?” “Everyone has. In a town this size, a dropped teacup becomes a headline.” “He was found in his bookshop at dawn.” “With the lights on, according to Edith from the flower stall. She notices everything.” “Edith also thinks begonias can sense dishonesty.” A pause settled between the clink of cups and the low hum of the old refrigerator. “He came in yesterday.” “For rye bread, same as always?” “For ginger biscuits. Said they were for a visitor.” “He never bought sweets.” “Exactly.” The espresso machine hissed like it disapproved. “And now the visitor’s nowhere to be found?” “Nowhere.” A paper bag was folded neatly, crisply, as if tidiness could tame unease. “You think the biscuits matter.” “I think people only change habits when something changes them first.” “Then you’d better save me two of those twists.” “For breakfast?” “For investigating.”