Run: 2026-09-23-01M37HCGM4GYV5WBH7D1PQWYF7

The bell above the bakery door gave a tired jingle. Outside, rain blurred the little town’s market square; inside, the air smelled of cinnamon and warm butter. “You’re early for the last lemon tart.” “I’m not here for the tart.” “That’s a first.” A wet umbrella leaned against the counter. Beside it sat a cake box tied with blue string. “I found this on my doorstep. The note says you made it.” “I did. Mrs. Bell ordered it yesterday.” “Mrs. Bell’s been in Brighton all week.” “Then who collected it?” “That’s what I hoped you’d tell me.” Flour dusted the glass display case, except for a clean half-moon where the box had rested that morning. Behind the counter, a tray of currant buns cooled untouched. “Someone came in just after eight. Green coat, knitted hat. Paid cash.” “Did you see their face?” “Not clearly. They kept looking at the clock.” The string slipped loose. Inside the box lay a perfect sponge cake with six tiny holes across its icing. “That isn’t how I decorated it.” “They look like pinpricks.” A bus groaned past outside. For a moment, both watched its red tail-lights vanish into the rain. “Mrs. Bell keeps a map of the old tunnels, doesn’t she?” “In the library. Why?” “There are six entrances.” The bell jingled again, though neither had seen anyone approach.