Image Description.
A vintage-style, painterly image styled like a classic sci-fi book cover. The background features a swirling, deep orange and brown vortex, reminiscent of a galaxy or black hole made of biscuit crumbs and tea stains. Suspended in the spiral are various classic British biscuits: a pink wafer, a jam tart, a Viennese whirl, a digestive, a shortbread finger, and others — all orbiting a central object like celestial bodies.
At the centre of the spiral is an old-fashioned metal biscuit tin labeled “Family Circle” in retro red and gold tones, slightly tilted as though being sucked into the vortex.
Above the whirlpool of baked goods, bold cream-colored text reads:
“SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH TIME”
Below the swirling tin, in large bold lettering:
“A CRUMBLE IN TIME”
Chapter Two – The Missing Bun
The tin jolted to a halt in a quiet alley, its lid creaking open with a sugary hiss. They stepped out cautiously into what looked like a familiar place — worn cobbles, crooked buildings, and the distant outline of a shop front they half-recognised. As they moved toward the street, the sign above the nearest door came into view: Co-op Bakery.
They waited outside the Co-op Bakery for a long time, half expecting something to reappear.
But nothing did.
No scent of baking. No clatter of trays. No queue of regulars chattering about crusts and cream. Just dust, silence, and the faint hum of the jamline tin back in the alley.
Lady Biscotti paced slowly in front of the abandoned cart. “If this bakery has been erased, there must be a fault in the jamlines somewhere nearby.”
Sir Dunkalot crouched beside the cart and ran his fingers over a worn patch of wood. “Could this have been where they loaded the cream-and-jam buns?”
“I don’t think so,” Lady Biscotti said. “Because according to this timeline, they never made them.”
Biggie gave a puzzled whuff. Indy pawed at a loose cobblestone, revealing something glinting just beneath the surface.
Lady Biscotti knelt and gently unearthed it: a fragment of a paper label, faded but just legible.
It read: “Co-op Cream Bun – One per person. No sharing.”
She held it up. “Proof. Physical proof that the bakery existed and sold cream buns. But no one remembers.”
Sir Dunkalot frowned. “So what now?”
Before she could answer, the air shimmered.
A wave of jam-scented static pulsed through the alley. Biggie growled. Indy barked once.
The tin glowed red and let out a low mechanical cough.
Then, with a soft pop, a scroll ejected from the side labelled Crumb Advisory Notice – Priority Level: Sticky.
Lady Biscotti caught it mid-air and unrolled it carefully. The fruity ink was still damp.
It read:
“Where sugar once gathered and butter was creamed, the recipe is lost but the flour remembers.”
Sir Dunkalot blinked. “That’s not helpful.”
“It is,” said Lady Biscotti. “It’s a clue. There’s a memory of the recipe still lingering nearby — not in a person, but in the place itself.”
She turned slowly, eyeing the old warehouse, then the street.
“There must be a flour store. Or a baking supply shop. Somewhere the ingredients were kept. If the buns are gone, maybe the memory of making them is still stored in the surroundings.”
Biggie nudged her leg. Indy trotted to the corner of the road, nose low.
Sir Dunkalot narrowed his eyes. “So we’re hunting ghost flour now?”
“No,” said Lady Biscotti. “We’re following a trail of forgotten crumbs.”
They followed Indy down the street until they reached an old iron sign above a narrow storefront.
“Hudson’s Baking Sundries & Yeast Supplies”
Inside, everything smelled like dry shelves and the past. Metal tins lined the walls. A rusty scale sat by the till.
Behind the counter stood a kindly man in a flour-dusted apron. He looked up as they entered, then paused. Something flickered behind his eyes.
“Cream buns,” he said slowly. “That’s odd. I just had the strangest memory…”
Lady Biscotti stepped forward. “Go on.”
“I was dusting the back shelf, and I suddenly thought — didn’t we used to supply icing sugar to the Co-op Bakery across the road? But it’s not there. Hasn’t been for years.” He blinked. “And yet I remember it clear as day. The delivery boy always asked for extra packets.”
She smiled. “The flour remembers.”
He reached under the counter and pulled out a crumpled order slip, yellowed with age. “Found this just this morning. It’s dated 1953. Says: ‘Urgent — cream buns x 300. Jam flavour optional.’”
Sir Dunkalot grinned. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Lady Biscotti folded the slip and tucked it into her notebook. “The jamlines may have erased the memory from most minds, but traces still linger.”
She turned to Biggie and Indy.
“Let’s get back to the tin. There’s more to fix. And something tells me… this is only the beginning.”
Sir Dunkalot reached for the Raisin Override again.
“One more button push,” said Lady Biscotti, “and I’m confiscating your biscuit privileges.”
He backed away, hands raised in exaggerated innocence.
The jamlines shimmered. The tin pulsed.
Time to jump again.
Image Description.
A vintage-style, painterly image styled like a classic sci-fi book cover. The background features a swirling, deep orange and brown vortex, reminiscent of a galaxy or black hole made of biscuit crumbs and tea stains. Suspended in the spiral are various classic British biscuits: a pink wafer, a jam tart, a Viennese whirl, a digestive, a shortbread finger, and others — all orbiting a central object like celestial bodies.
At the centre of the spiral is an old-fashioned metal biscuit tin labeled “Family Circle” in retro red and gold tones, slightly tilted as though being sucked into the vortex.
Above the whirlpool of baked goods, bold cream-colored text reads:
“SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH TIME”
Below the swirling tin, in large bold lettering:
“A CRUMBLE IN TIME”
Blind Man Makes 