The bread that came out of the oven was blue, as usual. “Good,” the mayor said, inspecting it closely. “Consistency is important.” She nodded, though her hands trembled slightly. “How long do I have to keep doing this?” she asked. “As long as necessary,” he replied. That wasn’t an answer. It never was. She had been chosen years ago. Not asked. Chosen. “The baker,” they called her. The one who kept things stable. The blue bread wasn’t sold. It wasn’t eaten by the townspeople. It was delivered. Left at the edge of the woods every morning before sunrise. She had never seen who—or what—took it. But she had seen what happened when it wasn’t there. That had been enough. Still, the color bothered her. It wasn’t natural. And lately, it had been getting darker. “Why is it changing?” she asked. The mayor’s expression didn’t shift. “It means the agreement is weakening.” Her stomach dropped. “What happens if it breaks?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. That night, she packed her things. Not because she thought she could escape it. But because she needed to try. At dawn, she walked past the woods without stopping. The bread remained on her kitchen counter, untouched. The bus arrived on schedule. No one followed her. No one stopped her. She didn’t know if that was a good sign or a terrible one. She waved as the bus pulled away, relieved she would never need to explain any of this.