Run: 2026-10-05-01M46B7HVBM32MQYX9XX1KS7Z5

By seven, every shop in Briar Lane was dark except the bakery. Rain ticked against its windows, and the last cinnamon buns cooled beneath a clean tea towel. “The mayor’s ribbon is in your flour bin.” “That’s inconvenient. His body was found in the library.” Between them on the counter lay a blue rosette, its gold lettering dusted white: FIRST PRIZE. “Perhaps he came here after judging the cake competition.” “Perhaps. But I swept at five, locked at six, and spent the evening losing at bingo.” “Did anyone else have a key?” “Only my sister.” The old refrigerator hummed. Somewhere behind it, a mouse made an ambitious scratching sound. “Before you look like that, she’s eighty-three and can’t lift a sack of sugar.” “I wasn’t looking like anything.” “You were looking like a policeman.” “I am a policeman.” “Well, have a bun and try looking less like one.” A plate slid across the counter. Beside it, the ribbon curled beneath the warm light. “Wait. Don’t brush that off.” “It’s flour.” “No. Taste it.” A pause, then a small, reluctant lick. “Icing sugar.” “And the only competition cake dusted with icing sugar?” The plate stopped halfway across the counter. “My sister’s lemon sponge.”