Run: 2026-07-09-01KX40Z7C3N17PN2K9QBNTAEXX

The bell over the bakery door gave its familiar brass chirp, though no one entered. Outside, rain silvered the cobbles of Marigold Lane. Inside, cinnamon rolls cooled in neat spirals beneath the glass case. “Tell me that isn’t a glove in the proofing basket.” “It is a glove.” “A very muddy glove.” “And, unless I’m mistaken, it belongs to Councillor Pruitt.” “How can you tell?” “His initials are embroidered on the cuff. R.P. Also, he’s the only man in town vain enough to own gloves the color of clotted cream.” The espresso machine hissed sharply, as if offended. “He was here this morning, wasn’t he?” “Just after seven. Ordered a bran muffin and complained that the blueberries were too blue.” “Did he leave through the back?” “He said he needed fresh air. In a bakery. During a thunderstorm.” A drop of rain slid from the glove’s fingertips onto the flour-dusted counter. “What’s that stuck to it?” “Looks like a ticket stub.” “For the charity raffle?” “No. The midnight train to Bellwether.” “But the midnight train hasn’t run in ten years.” From the kitchen, the old oven timer began to ring. “That’s impossible.” “So is finding a missing councillor’s glove in my dough.” The bell over the door chimed again. This time, someone knocked.