Run: 2026-10-08-01M4DA3TEETZZSB0AZM7P21FFK

The bell above the door of Hazel's Bakery jingled at half past six, and the cinnamon rolls were still too hot to frost. "You're early," the baker said, not looking up from the proofing trays. "Couldn't sleep. Somebody's been in my shop." "Your shop? Since when do you own anything on Maple Street besides that rusty bicycle?" "Since the lease went through last week. Look at this." A small brass key lay on the counter, tied with a faded red ribbon. "That's the key to the old storeroom. Nobody's touched it since Mabel passed." "Exactly. And the lock's been pried. There are fresh scratches on the brass plate, and the dust on the shelves is smeared like someone crawled through." "Maybe Ed from the hardware store came by for the spare key." "Ed doesn't leave flour prints on the doorframe." A pause. The oven timer chimed, and neither of them moved to answer it. "Flour prints," the baker repeated slowly. "How big?" "Small. Narrow heel. Like someone wearing your old clogs." "Those clogs have been in the donation box for a month." "Then someone's been pulling them out of that box, and they know this place better than we do." The baker wiped her hands on her apron, reached for the phone, and dialed a number she had known by heart for thirty years.