Run: 2026-09-03-01M1KA3KKQCDC3ZA1XS6JGCN42

The bell above the bakery door chimed a tinny, cheerful lie. Nora wiped a smear of flour from her apron and watched Harold Finch, the town’s retired postmaster, settle onto his usual stool with a groan that said more than words. “The usual, Harold?” she asked, already reaching for the day-old sourdough. He always bought the day-old. He always complained about it. “Depends,” he muttered, adjusting his cap. “You get any more of those raspberry jam-filled from Lila’s farm?” “Same as every Thursday.” Nora slid the paper-wrapped loaf across the counter. “Why? Something wrong with the batch?” “Not the batch. The source.” He leaned in, lowering his voice despite the empty shop. “Lila’s been acting peculiar. Saw her at dawn, digging behind her chicken coop. Not planting, mind you. Digging up.” Nora’s hand stilled on the register. “Berries are early this year. Maybe she’s moving them.” “With a shovel? And a flashlight?” Harold shook his head, the crumbs of a stale croissant clinging to his mustache. “And that’s not all. The new librarian—the quiet one with the glasses—was over at the old Miller place last night. The *abandoned* Miller place.” “People take walks.” “In the rain? At midnight?” He paused, letting the silence hang like a question. “Found her shoes this morning. Dry as a bone, on the welcome mat outside the museum, though it poured all night.” Nora’s fingers froze on the pastry tongs. She looked through the window at the sun-drenched street, then back at Harold. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying,” Harold said, picking a piece of dough off his sleeve and popping it in his mouth, “that for a town this quiet, our mornings are getting awfully loud.”