Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ03ANSAAQ2EFW1QGM9MF38C

The scent of cinnamon and yeast wrapped around them like a warm blanket. Flour dusted the glass display case, softening the golden light of the afternoon. “You’ve been quiet today.” “Just thinking. About Mrs. Higgins’ prize-winning jam tarts.” “The ones she always enters in the county fair? What about them?” “The entry list for the fair was published this morning. Her name isn’t on it.” A pause, filled only by the rhythmic *thump* of dough being shaped on the marble counter. “That is odd. She’s entered for thirty years. Maybe she’s ill?” “Maybe. Her kitchen window, the one that faces the alley, was open at dawn. I saw it when I took out the bins.” “And?” “And Mrs. Higgins hasn’t opened that window herself since her hip surgery. It’s stuck. We both know that.” The dough was folded with deliberate, unhurried precision. “So who opens it? And why, right before the fair, when her tarts are… missing?” The question hung in the sweet, warm air, as light and fragile as a meringue peak.