The bread that came out of the oven was blue, as usual. She placed it beside the others. There were seven now, lined neatly across the counter. One for each day. She wasn’t supposed to make more than one. But something had gone wrong this week. Or maybe something had gone right. She wasn’t sure anymore. The first loaf had been pale. The second, deeper. By the seventh, the color was so rich it almost seemed to absorb the light around it. She stared at them, trying to remember when the pattern had started. Or why. That was the worst part. The forgetting. Each morning, she woke with less certainty about what she was doing here—and more certainty that it mattered. The loaves weren’t for eating. She knew that much. They were for counting. For measuring something she couldn’t quite grasp anymore. She picked up the final loaf, her fingers trembling slightly. It felt heavier than it should. Full. Complete. A memory flickered—brief but sharp. A warning. Stop before the last one. Her breath caught. “This is the last one,” she whispered. The room seemed to tighten around her. The oven clicked softly behind her, as though resetting. Waiting. She didn’t stay to see what it would produce next. She grabbed her coat and left the kitchen exactly as it was—seven loaves, untouched. Outside, the sky looked wrong. Too deep. Too vivid. The bus was already there. She climbed aboard quickly, refusing to look back. She waved as the bus pulled away, relieved she would never need to explain any of this.