The bread that came out of the oven was blue, as usual. She stared at it, trying to remember when it had stopped being strange. Because it had been strange once. She was sure of that. There had been a moment—clear, sharp—when she had pulled the first blue loaf from the oven and felt something was wrong. Deeply wrong. But that feeling had faded. Softened. Replaced by something easier to accept. Normal. She picked up the bread, turning it slowly in her hands. It looked right now. Of course it did. It always had. Hadn’t it? Her thoughts stumbled over themselves, uncertain. She tried to picture a different color. Brown. Golden. The images slipped away before she could hold onto them. Like trying to remember a dream after waking. “Why does it matter?” she whispered. It didn’t. That was the problem. It should matter. But it didn’t anymore. That absence felt more wrong than the color itself. She set the bread down carefully, stepping back from it as though distance might restore something she had lost. It didn’t. The kitchen felt smaller suddenly. Too contained. Too certain. She grabbed her coat without fully understanding why. Outside, the world felt sharper. Less certain. Better. The bus arrived as if it had been waiting for her all along. She climbed aboard without hesitation. Behind her, the house stood quiet. Certain. Unchanged. She waved as the bus pulled away, relieved she would never need to explain any of this.