Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09G58E7WCC5N1RC7SC5G47

The bell above the door gave a tired little jingle as warm vanilla air curled around Mira’s wrists. Flour dusted the counter like fresh snow, and the cinnamon rolls in the case glowed under the lights. “Those are angel cookies?” asked the newcomer, leaning in like the tray might answer. “They’re supposed to be,” Mira said, sliding the glass aside. “But someone turned the rosemary into confetti again.” “I only used what the recipe said,” he replied, brushing his sleeve as if he could erase evidence. “Half a teaspoon.” Mira’s eyes flicked to the clipboard by the register—yesterday’s notes, smudged in the margin. “And yet the dough tasted like a forest decided to file a complaint.” His grin faltered. “People do love surprises.” A faint clink came from the back—metal on ceramic. Mira paused, listening. “Surprises don’t leave scorch marks on the cooling rack.” The man’s gaze darted toward the hallway. “Could be the oven. It runs hot when it’s—” “Cranky?” Mira raised an eyebrow. “Or when someone’s been in there after closing?” Silence settled between them, sweet as frosting. “Look,” he said softly, “I was just trying to fix the batch. The custard—” Mira pulled open the oven door with a practiced hand. Inside, a single charred card stuck to the tray. She read the words, then looked up. “Someone wrote a confession in the wrong place.”