The bread that came out of the oven was blue, as usual. “Still wrong,” she muttered, setting it aside. She checked the recipe again. Same measurements. Same timing. Same everything. And yet, the result never changed. At first, she’d blamed the ingredients. Then the oven. Then herself. Now, she wasn’t sure what to blame. She reached for the flour bag again—and froze. The label wasn’t what it should be. Not quite. The brand name was correct. The design was the same. But something about it felt… off. She opened it slowly, peering inside. The flour looked normal. Smelled normal. But when she touched it, a faint blue dust clung to her fingers. Her breath caught. She hadn’t noticed it before. Or maybe she had—and forgotten. She looked around the kitchen, her pulse quickening. Everything seemed the same. But not identical. A subtle shift in every detail. As though something had replaced the world with a version that was just slightly wrong. And she was the only one who could tell. The bread wasn’t the anomaly. It was the evidence. Proof that something had changed. Something she couldn’t undo. She backed away from the counter slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. “No,” she whispered. But denial didn’t change the color. Or the truth behind it. She grabbed her bag and left without turning off the oven. Outside, the air felt unfamiliar. The bus was already there, engine idling softly. The driver didn’t look surprised to see her. She didn’t ask why. She waved as the bus pulled away, relieved she would never need to explain any of this.