Run: 2026-09-23-01M37HPTM4D7J8BVAZPWADPJ77

By eight o’clock, the bakery windows had fogged over, hiding Main Street beneath a veil of sugar and steam. Outside, the church bell rang nine times. “That clock’s fast again.” “It’s eight. I just took the rolls out.” “Then why did the bell ring nine?” Flour dusted the counter between them. Beside the till sat a blue china button, found that morning in the locked pantry beside an empty shelf where the county fair’s prizewinning jam had been stored. “The bell tower was locked last night, too.” “And yet someone got in. Do you think the jam thief rang it?” “Not for the pleasure of waking Mrs. Pritchard early.” A tray of currant buns cooled by the window. Across the street, the church caretaker emerged carrying a ladder. One sleeve of his blue coat hung loose. “Look at his cuff.” “He buys a bun every morning. He was here at seven.” “Was he wearing his coat?” “No. He said he’d left it in the tower.” They watched him set the ladder against the bakery wall. “Why’s he coming here?” “Yesterday, I asked him to fix the clock above our door.” The little brass clock still showed eight. Beneath it, just visible in the brickwork, was the old pantry vent. “He didn’t come to fix a clock.” “No,” came the quiet reply. “And I think we’d better move those buns.”