Run: 2026-09-01-01M1EMB5KN0MMVX3B3ABZ0C4GS

The oven clock ticked like a metronome above the marble counter, where sugar-dusted scones cooled behind glass. A bell jingled, though the door stayed shut, haunted by a draft from a cracked window. “You came.” “I came because you have keys to Eleanor’s office back there.” “I have keys to everything and nothing, apparently.” A flour-dusted hand slid a cinnamon roll onto a chipped plate. “The police sealed the church hall at dawn.” “The coroner’s report is missing a page.” “The hatbox was open when they found it.” “Inside?” “Inside, a receipt for six pounds of almond flour dated yesterday morning. She didn’t bake yesterday; she was dead by noon.” The espresso machine hissed, pouring dark liquid into a ceramic cup. “You think someone used her kitchen to hide evidence?” “I think the clergy board is meeting at ten to discuss a funeral they think is just a heart attack. We need the flour samples before they sanitize everything.” A chair scraped against tile. The visitor leaned closer, voice lowering to match the bakery’s hush. “Where do we start?” The baker wiped her hands on a towel and nodded toward the storeroom door. “The bin behind the counter. I already checked the scales, but the recipe cards are missing.” Footsteps clattered upstairs—someone walking above the café, followed by a distant door slam. “Then we check the cards.” “The cards won’t exist if they burn them first.” The baker reached under the counter and pulled out a worn leather journal. “Start with this. It belongs to Eleanor; she never went anywhere without it.” The visitor opened it. In between pressed flowers and grocery lists, a single line: *The proof is in the almond meal, not the icing.* Outside, a church bell rang—urgent, sharp, calling everyone to prayer they no longer believed in.