The bread that came out of the oven was blue, as usual. She wrapped it carefully in cloth, tying the corners tight the way she’d been shown. Precision mattered. It always had. The first time she’d done it wrong, the color had been uneven. That had been enough. She didn’t make that mistake again. Now, the bread was perfect. Consistent. Exactly what it needed to be. She carried it to the edge of the field, just before the tree line. She never went further than that. No one did. The instructions were clear. Leave the bread. Do not wait. Do not look back. She followed them exactly. She always did. But today, something felt different. The air was still. Too still. As she placed the bundle on the ground, she hesitated. Just for a second. Then she stepped back. One step. Two. And then she turned. Not fully. Just enough to glance over her shoulder. The bundle was gone. Her breath caught. It had never happened that quickly before. She forced herself to keep walking. Not to run. Not to react. The rules mattered. Breaking them had consequences. She didn’t want to find out what they were. Back at the house, the oven was already preheating. Ready for the next batch. She stared at it for a long moment. Then turned away. Outside, the bus waited at the end of the road. She didn’t hesitate this time. She waved as the bus pulled away, relieved she would never need to explain any of this.