Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0A19FFND1A48VDDQ0JNWK9

The bell over the bakery door gave its cheerful little jingle as Nora came in from the rain, a strip of silver clinging to her umbrella. “Tell me that smell is cinnamon.” “Cinnamon, butter, and one regrettable amount of nutmeg.” Nora leaned over the glass case. “You make that sound like a confession.” “It is. I may have forgotten to label the trays before I put them in the oven.” Nora lifted a brow. “In the bakery where everyone comes in asking for the mayor’s favorite cranberry scones?” A tray thumped onto the counter. “That would be the same bakery, yes.” Outside, water tapped softly against the windows. Inside, the room glowed warm gold, all flour dust and polished wood. Nora frowned at the counter by the register, where a folded square of paper lay beneath a sugar jar. “You’ve got a note.” “I’ve had a very long morning.” Nora picked it up, careful not to smudge the ink. Her smile faded as she read it. “Well?” “It says, ‘Stop asking about the cellar.’” The baker went still, then reached for the rolling pin with unnecessary calm. “That’s interesting.” “Interesting is not the word I’d use.” “No. But it may be the word the person who wrote it would regret.” Through the rain-streaked window, a dark sedan idled at the curb, then slowly pulled away.