Run: 2026-09-23-01M37NSHYRYD229Q3CZHCT6EN8

The morning rush had ended, leaving only the smell of cinnamon and cooling bread between them. "You heard about the Henderson place, then?" "Hard not to. Three squad cars, Doris said. She counted them herself on her walk." "Doris would. What are they saying at the diner?" "That old man Henderson hasn't been seen since Tuesday. His curtains drawn, mail piling up." "His niece came by yesterday asking if he'd been in for his usual lemon scones. I told her no, not in over a week." "Strange." "Very. He never misses his lemon scones. Twenty years, I've been baking them for that man." "The police chief came in this morning, you know. Ordered his usual—two maple bars, black coffee." "Did he say anything?" "Not a word. But his hands were trembling when he handed me the money." "That doesn't sound promising." "No. No, it doesn't." The timer dinged, and the first batch of cinnamon rolls emerged golden brown, glistening with glaze, as if nothing at all were wrong in the small town of Millbrook.