Run: 2026-10-06-01M48VTDQSHXQKAPD94BW15YYB

The bell above the door chimed, and warm cinnamon air wrapped around her shoulders. "Morning, Clara. The sourdough's still proofing, but the cardamom knots are fresh." "Perfect. I'll take two, and whatever's behind the counter that looks suspicious." "Everything looks suspicious when you're a mystery writer." "Everything *is* suspicious when you're a mystery writer. That's the point." She set a worn paperback on the glass case—*The Locked Library*—and tapped the spine. "Chapter seven. The baker finds the body in the bread oven." "At nine in the morning?" "Mystery bakers work early. Dramatic bakers work *earlier*." A laugh, flour-dusted and genuine. "Speaking of dramatic, Mrs. Pembridge's cat went missing again. Third time this month." "Poisoned scones?" "She'd never. She *loves* that cat." "Then someone else does." The bell chimed again. A man in a tweed cap entered, shaking rain from his shoulders, and the conversation paused—two women watching, wondering, already turning the newcomer into a character, already suspecting. "Two cardamom knots," she said finally. "And a coffee. Black. Like my soul." "Coming right up, Clara."