Run: 2026-09-02-01M1HJYMSN1HCNAMT626A6X44P

Morning bells jingled as the bakery filled with cinnamon and butter. A glass display case gleamed beneath the windows, its rows of lemon tarts waiting for customers. The town clock had just struck seven when the first scent of burnt sugar broke through the usual comfort. “Did you smell that?” “Everyone smells it. That’s not the problem.” “Maybe it started in the back kitchen.” “Maybe someone’s trying to make a statement.” A tray of empty cruller boxes sat on the prep table, stacked three high. Beside them, a single blue glove dangled from the handle of the oven door. “I haven’t sold a cruller since six.” “And yet these are gone.” The morning frost softened the bakery windows, fogging the chalkboard sign that promised the best pie in Maple Hollow. Beneath it, someone had written in powdered sugar on the countertop: ask about the church key. The baker’s hands stilled on the rolling pin. “Only one person uses that phrase.” “Then we’d better not wait for him.” The little brass bell above the door jingled again, but the street outside remained deserted. On the register, a folded receipt sat weighted down by a marzipan sheep, its edges crisp and innocent. The scent of burnt sugar suddenly felt much worse than a ruined batch of candy.