The bread that came out of the oven was blue, as usual. “Perfect,” her mother said, slicing into it with practiced ease. She forced a smile. “It’s still strange, don’t you think?” “Only the first few times,” her mother replied. “You get used to it.” That was the problem. Everything about this place became normal if you stayed long enough. The blue bread. The silence in the fields. The way no one asked questions. She hadn’t always lived here. She remembered that much. But the longer she stayed, the harder it was to remember anything else. “What gives it the color?” she asked again, though she already knew what her mother would say. “Tradition,” she replied simply. That wasn’t an answer. Later, when her mother wasn’t looking, she took a piece of the bread and examined it closely. The color wasn’t just on the surface. It ran all the way through. Like it had grown that way. Like it had been part of the ingredients. Her stomach turned. That night, she packed quietly. She didn’t confront her mother. Didn’t ask any more questions. She didn’t want the answers. At dawn, she walked to the road and waited. When the bus finally arrived, she stepped on without hesitation. The driver glanced at the faint blue stain on her lips but said nothing. Neither did she. She waved as the bus pulled away, relieved she would never need to explain any of this.