Run: 2026-04-27-01KQ7823MKBS943ZB68TB3XER3

The bell above the door chimed through the rich scent of caramelized cinnamon and rising dough. Flour dusted the counter in a neat crescent around yesterday’s sourdough. Two mugs of black coffee steamed beside a cracked porcelain ledger. You don’t think it was a mistake. Not with three dozen tarts missing their wax labels. A chair scraped against the oak floorboards. Heavy boots shifted near the pastry case. Someone’s been slipping behind the counter when the ovens cool. Careful with your hands, or the yeast won’t forgive you. The shells look fine. Golden, still crisp. But the cash drawer tells a different story. Missing quarters. A receipt torn clean off the roll. Now the copper mixing bowls vanish by Thursday. I sweep before I open. I count before I bake. Then why does the old ledger smell like lavender soap? The kind only the post office carries. A sigh rattled the flour off the shelf. The chair legs squeaked as a notebook slid across the wood. I’ll bolt the back door. You keep your nose out of the proofing racks. Deal. But I’m borrowing the heavy-duty mixer. It’s yours. Just don’t ask about the missing tins. The rats took them last week. Probably.