Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YFEJST0BM9HFAWFXJYTSY8

The bell above Honeycrust Bakery’s door jingled as rain swept down Appleby Lane. Inside, the ovens ticked, cinnamon warmed the air, and a tray of gingerbread vicars cooled beneath a linen cloth. “You’re icing that bun into oblivion.” “It helps me think.” “It’s helping that bun become a paperweight.” “Look at this instead.” A blue order slip slid across the counter, stopping beside a sugar shaker. “Mr. Puddle’s seed cake. Extra nutmeg. For Saturday.” “His usual.” “His funeral was yesterday.” “Perhaps someone else placed the order.” “In his handwriting?” “You’ve compared it?” “With forty years of birthday-cake requests. He dots his i’s with little hearts.” “Charming.” “Alarming. The slip was in this morning’s post.” “Posted before he died, then.” “Look at the back.” A smear of violet jam stained the paper, surrounding three words: *Don’t tell Agnes.* “That’s damson jam.” “Half the village makes damson jam.” “Not this late. The frost took every damson except the ones in old Mrs. Crowe’s garden.” “And she’s in Scotland.” “Her niece isn’t.” Outside, footsteps hurried past the fogged window. The blue slip trembled beneath a sudden draft, though both bakery doors were shut.