The bread that came out of the oven was blue, as usual. “Perfect,” the man said, stepping into the kitchen. She turned sharply. “Who are you?” “Your replacement,” he replied simply. Her stomach dropped. “That’s not how this works,” she said. “No one told me—” “They never do,” he interrupted gently. He moved past her, inspecting the loaf with practiced ease. “Good consistency. You’ve been doing well.” “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice tightening. “You don’t need to,” he said. “Not anymore.” He set the bread down and turned to face her fully. “You’ve fulfilled your part.” “What part?” He smiled faintly. “The part where you keep everything running.” Her chest tightened. “Running what?” He didn’t answer directly. Instead, he gestured toward the oven. It hummed softly, steady and precise. Necessary. “You kept the balance,” he said. “Now someone else will.” A strange mix of relief and unease settled in her chest. “So I can leave?” “Yes.” Just like that. No resistance. No consequence. As though it had always been part of the process. She hesitated for only a moment. Then grabbed her coat and walked out the door. The air outside felt lighter than she remembered. Freer. The bus was already there. She climbed aboard quickly, not giving herself time to reconsider. Through the window, she saw him step into her place, already preparing the next batch. The oven light flickered once, then steadied. She waved as the bus pulled away, relieved she would never need to explain any of this.