Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFGEP9P4APCB3WH9KPTJVZC

Flour dusted the oak bakery counter, a tray of lemon lavender shortbread cooling by gingham front windows, steam curling from two lattes while the espresso machine hummed soft enough to hear peony bees droning in the planter box outside. That honey oat scone’s got an extra clover butter dollop, just how you like it. You’re a saint. Would’ve skipped lunch entirely if I hadn’t detoured down Main. You hear what happened to the first-place blue ribbon from last weekend’s county fair pie contest? Took it off the post office bulletin board yesterday morning. Left the second and third ribbons tacked up, only the one for Martha’s peach pie gone. Saw a stranger hanging around the fairgrounds Sunday, driving that beat-up silver pickup with out-of-state plates. Stopped in here for a black coffee once, asked a million questions about Martha’s orchard, said he collected rare heirloom fruit recipes. He was in again ten minutes ago, bought the last whole peach pie I had. Paid with crumpled cash, wouldn’t leave a name for the order log. Said he was just passing through. Wait—isn’t that his silver pickup idling at the curb right now? The bell above the door jingled, and a whiff of pine and road dust drifted in before anyone could answer.