Run: 2026-03-18-01KM07H91AA3RG3ZN7MTDN1R90

The bell over the bakery door chimed, warm air rolling out with the scent of cinnamon and yeast. “Morning,” the woman behind the counter said, slipping a tray into the oven with practiced care. “If you’re here for the honey buns, you’re just on time.” “I’m just here for proof,” the visitor replied, tugging off her gloves. “Someone said you’ve been buying those tiny saffron tins from the market on Alder Street.” The baker’s smile didn’t move much. “I buy saffron for holiday pastries. People like a little luxury when the season turns.” “I like answers when someone turns up missing,” the visitor said, leaning closer to the glass case where éclairs sat like polished secrets. “Last night, the mayor’s assistant came by looking for saffron. Then she disappeared before breakfast.” “People disappear all the time,” the baker said, wiping flour from her apron. “Usually into a perfectly good excuse.” The visitor’s eyes flicked to the back room door. “And sometimes,” she murmured, “into a pantry with a locked latch.” The baker’s hands paused. “Careful. That latch sticks.” “It sticks when it’s been used,” the visitor said softly, “and someone’s been fiddling with it.” A timer beeped. The baker glanced at the oven, then back at the customer. “Well,” she said, voice light as sponge cake, “today might be the day we untangle a few things.”