The bread that came out of the oven was blue, as usual. No one else seemed to notice. “Smells great,” her husband said, already reaching for a slice. She hesitated. “You don’t think it looks… strange?” He frowned at her, confused. “What do you mean?” She pointed. “It’s blue.” He laughed lightly. “It’s bread.” Her stomach tightened. The first time it had happened, she’d assumed it was the lighting. The second time, she’d questioned the ingredients. By the third, she had started asking people. Every single one of them gave the same response. They didn’t see it. Or they refused to. She stopped asking after that. Instead, she watched. Watched as people ate it without hesitation. Without concern. Watched as the color deepened over time. Now it was unmistakable—rich, vivid blue. Impossible to ignore. Except they still did. Except she was the only one who didn’t. That morning, she tried something different. She didn’t bake. The kitchen felt wrong without it. Quiet. Waiting. By noon, the unease had spread through the house. By evening, it had settled into something heavier. Her husband grew restless. Irritable. “You forgot the bread,” he said, his voice tight. “I didn’t forget,” she replied. He stared at her, something unfamiliar flickering in his eyes. “You need to make it,” he said. The way he said it made her step back. That was when she understood. The bread wasn’t for them. It was for whatever needed them to stay the same. She grabbed her coat before the oven could even preheat. Outside, the air felt clearer than it had in weeks. The bus arrived just as the first shout came from the house behind her. She didn’t stop. She waved as the bus pulled away, relieved she would never need to explain any of this.