Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09KQHNAEGZFH9YC4R6X1GE

The bell over the bakery door gave its cheerful jingle as sunlight spilled across the tiled floor and settled warm on the display case. Cinnamon, butter, and fresh bread wrapped around the room like a hug. “You’re late.” “The clock in my kitchen is optimistic.” “It’s ten minutes fast?” “Exactly. Very supportive of my habits.” A soft laugh drifted from behind the counter, where trays of lemon scones cooled beside a row of plum turnovers. Through the front window, Main Street shimmered in the morning heat, the little town already waking in bits and pieces: the florist dragging a bucket of dahlias inside, the postmaster pausing to adjust his cap, Mrs. Pritchard peering in as if she meant to purchase the entire bakery one bun at a time. “You smell like smoke.” “I was near the church bake sale. Someone’s pie may have met a tragic end.” “Whose pie?” “No idea. But the fire truck came.” “Is everyone all right?” “So far. Unless you count the pie.” A hand tapped the glass of the case, thoughtful, then urgent. “Tell me you didn’t see anything strange.” “Define strange.” “That’s not reassuring.” “Then no, I didn’t.” The smile that answered was small and not entirely convinced. From the back room came the thump of a falling pan, followed by a muttered curse. “Well,” said one voice, reaching for a paper bag, “if the bakery’s going to have another mystery before noon, we’ll need coffee.” “And something sweet.” “Always something sweet.”