You were exhausted.

The kind of tired that clings to your shoulders after a long day—whether it was the mindless chatter of coworkers, the endless meetings that could’ve been emails, or the soul-crushing walk back in shoes that definitely weren’t made for walking. The moment your front door shut behind you, you exhaled. Finally. Silence. Home.

You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag by the door, and shuffled into the kitchen with thoughts of collapsing on the couch or microwaving something vaguely edible.

Then you froze.

There it was. On the table.

A baguette.

Not wrapped. Not in a grocery bag. Just sitting there, bare and golden, resting across the middle of the table like it owned the place. No crumbs, no knife nearby—just a perfectly untouched loaf, oddly regal in its presentation.

You frowned. You didn’t buy bread. You were sure of that.

No roommate. No deliveries. No reason. And yet, there it sat—like it had always been there. Like it was supposed to be.

Curiosity crept in, slow and deliberate. You stepped closer. The light above the table flickered slightly, but held. The air felt heavier here, like something old and still had settled into the space. You leaned down.

It was warm. Still fresh. You swore you could almost smell it, that faint, comforting scent of fresh bread straight from an oven—only it didn’t smell quite right. Too clean. Too perfect.

And then you noticed it: A tiny slip of paper underneath. You hadn’t seen it before.

You reached out and carefully slid it out from beneath the baguette. It was creased, aged. Written in neat, almost mechanical cursive were two words:

“Touch it.”

That was it. No name. No explanation. Just an invitation—or a command.

You stood there in silence, holding the note, staring at the bread. The room was quiet. Too quiet.

Almost like it was waiting for you.

Pick it up? Yea or no?