Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCPPW08FDJNCWDXTG3677ZZ

The bell over the door jangled, and the smell of scorched sugar drifted out from the back. "You burned the cinnamon buns again." "I did not burn them. They're caramelized." "Marjorie, there's smoke coming out of the oven vent." "That's steam. Sit down, I've got coffee." A chair scraped. Somewhere under the counter, a radio murmured about the weather. "You heard about Harold Feeney, then." "Heard he didn't show up to open the hardware store. Third day running." "Fourth. And his truck's still parked behind the Legion hall, right where he left it Friday." "Maybe he went to visit his sister in Truro." "Harold hasn't spoken to Sandra since the fence business in '09. He'd sooner walk into the harbour." "Don't say things like that." "I'm only saying what everybody's thinking. Cream?" "Please. Two." "You know what's odd, though. He came in Friday morning. Bought a dozen lemon squares." "Harold hates lemon." "Harold *loathes* lemon. Called them a waste of good sugar for nineteen years. Then Friday he walks in, doesn't say a word, points at the tray, and pays with a fifty." A long pause. The radio switched to fiddle music. "Marjorie." "Mm?" "Who eats lemon squares?" "That," came the reply, "is exactly what I've been wondering."