Run: 2026-09-23-01M37HWZGP689S4Z0JEKVT7ZFA

By seven, the windows of Bellwether Bakery had fogged over, and the cinnamon buns were cooling beneath a clean tea towel. Outside, rain silvered the empty high street. “You’ve counted them twice.” “Because there are eleven. I baked twelve.” “Perhaps you ate one.” “I’d remember. It’s the mayor’s order, and he specifically asked for twelve.” “Then he’ll have to forgive a little arithmetic.” “That’s not what worries me. Look at the tray.” A neat square of flour lay undisturbed where the missing bun should have been. Beside it rested a brass button. “That isn’t from your apron.” “No. Mine are mother-of-pearl.” “The mayor wears brass buttons on his coat.” “And the mayor has a key to the bakery?” “He hasn’t. But whoever came through the back door left muddy footprints.” The kettle clicked off. Beyond the ovens, the back door stood an inch ajar. “There’s no mud in here.” “Exactly.” For a moment, the only sound was rain ticking against the glass. Then a faint scratching came from the flour cupboard. “If that’s a burglar, he has terrible timing.” “If it’s a mouse, he has excellent taste.” The cupboard opened. A ginger cat slipped out, a whole cinnamon bun clenched in his jaws. Around his collar hung the mayor’s missing coat button. “He did say his cat was impossible to keep indoors.” “He never said the cat could pick locks.”