Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD4S1VBJCD8341TCG3SEA5T

The bell over Honeycomb Bakery jingled, letting in a gust of October air and the scent of wet leaves. Maribel was already behind the counter, flour on her sleeves, arranging the morning's cinnamon rolls like evidence at a crime scene. The chalkboard menu still read "Finch's Favorite - 50 cents off" and nobody had the heart to erase it. "You've heard about old Mr. Finch, then?" "That he choked on one of your scones? I heard. Repeatedly. Mostly from Sheriff Laura." "They were lemon-poppyseed. No one chokes that dramatically on lemon-poppyseed unless they're trying to make a point. And he left this on his table." A crumpled napkin slid across the counter. On it, in shaky ink: BEWARE THE BAKER. "Charming. Did you keep the scone?" "The sheriff took it. For evidence. As if I'd poison my best customer. He still owes me three dollars for last Tuesday." "So we'll have to bake our way out of this one. Again. You get the butter, I'll get the gossip." The oven timer dinged, loud and guilty. Outside, rain hammered the cobblestones, and the bakery window fogged, hiding Main Street and whatever secrets Mr. Finch had tried to swallow.