The bread that came out of the oven was blue, as usual. She checked the clock. Right on time. Every day, the same result. The same color. The same routine. Consistency was the key. That’s what the manual had said. She had followed it exactly. Measured everything. Timed everything. Repeated the process without deviation. Because that was how you completed the cycle. At least, that’s what she had believed. She picked up the loaf, examining it closely. The color was deeper today. More saturated. Closer to the shade shown in the final illustration of the manual. Her pulse quickened. “Is this it?” she whispered. The house didn’t answer. It never did. But something felt different. The air. The light. The weight of the moment. She set the bread down carefully and walked to the door. For the first time in months, she didn’t feel resistance. No hesitation. No pull to stay. She opened it slowly. Outside, the world looked normal. Unchanged. Free. She stepped through without looking back. The cycle was complete. Or broken. She wasn’t sure which. The bus waited at the end of the road, as though it had always been there. She climbed aboard, taking a seat by the window. As it pulled away, she caught a glimpse of the house shrinking in the distance. For a moment, she thought she saw the oven light flicker on again. Ready for someone else. She waved as the bus pulled away, relieved she would never need to explain any of this.