Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0AJRP8EWCA7849B91TN0EE

The bell above the door chimes as a gust of wind sends a flurry of flour dust into the air. At a corner table, two women sit nursing cups of tea, the scent of cinnamon and yeast hanging thick in the warm bakery. A tray of fresh cinnamon rolls glistens with icing, and the hum of quiet conversation mingles with the soft clink of china. Outside, the morning sun casts long shadows across the wooden floor, where a few townsfolk linger over pastries. "You look well. Haven’t seen you since the summer fair." "Been busy at the flower shop. You know how it is—spring rush." "Isn’t that Mr. Thompson’s daughter over there? Haven’t seen her since she left for the city." "She’s back? The one who wrote that book?" "Yes, and with some strange rumors swirling around her. They say she’s asking too many questions about the old mill fire." "Well, it’s no concern of ours." "Perhaps not. But the sheriff’s been seen talking to her. That’s never a good sign." "Didn’t she used to date young Jimmy? He’s the one who—" "Shh! Not so loud. You know how folks talk." The cinnamon rolls cool on their rack, untouched. Strange, really, how some questions never stay buried.