Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFKX6K46BH8KZZMDDNGEYZB

Flour dusted the stainless steel counter like fresh snow. The only sounds were the rhythmic *clack* of the refrigerator door and the distant hum of the proofing oven. “The cinnamon order came in yesterday.” The voice was flat, a practiced monotone that held no warmth. “Oh? I hadn’t checked the invoices yet.” A second voice, warmer, but frayed at the edges. A hand, dusted with sugar, paused over a tray of unbaked scones. “They said it was a special delivery. From the new supplier in Mill Creek.” A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the ticking clock above the display case. “The one with the truck that always breaks down?” “The very same.” The first voice moved closer, the scent of fresh bread mingling with something sharper, like anxiety. “Funny, though. The manifest said twenty-five bags. We only got five.” The second set of hands stilled completely on the scones. The warm, yeasty air of the bakery suddenly felt thick and close. Five bags instead of twenty-five. The rest, it seemed, had vanished somewhere along the quiet country road from Mill Creek.