Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09ZK7KPGY4P9P7BBFFHQQ5

The bell above the bakery door gave a tired little jingle as the afternoon light slipped across the flour-dusted counter. A tray of cinnamon rolls steamed behind the glass, and the air smelled like sugar trying its best. “Tell me you didn’t touch the recipe card again.” “It was under a magnet. I found it by accident.” “Accident my foot. That card doesn’t move unless someone’s looking.” “I’m not ‘someone.’ I’m a person with excellent pastry instincts.” “Your instincts led straight to the till drawer.” “That drawer was open.” “After you came in? Convenient.” “I came in for honey buns. Not for drama.” “Then why is the jar labeled ‘vanilla’ filled with ginger?” A pause—just the soft hiss of the espresso machine and a spoon tapping ceramic. “Maybe the wholesaler switched labels.” “Mmm. The wholesaler doesn’t come here and swap spices, but whoever did knows exactly where we keep things.” The voice softened, careful as a proofing dough. “Did you see anyone near the back?” “No… but I did hear the thud. Like a box dropped.” “Not a box.” A hand rested on the counter, steadying. “A key. Someone dropped a key.” “And now you want to catch them before the custard sets?” “Exactly.” The bell jangled again, and both of them looked toward the door, listening for footsteps that didn’t belong.