Every morning, at the exact same time, retired Englishman Harold Whitmore stepped onto the porch of his cottageand there it was again. A fresh loaf of bread, wrapped in crisp cellophane, waiting for him like some sinister offering. The packaging bore the logo of a bakery he’d never heard of, the name oddly foreign, sending a chill down his spine.
At first, he assumed it was a neighbour’s kindness. Perhaps someone had noticed his solitude and taken pity. The thought warmed him brieflyuntil suspicion crept in. Nothing in life came for free. He left the loaf untouched.
The next day, another appearedidentical, down to the unsettling packaging. Maybe the council had launched some new pensioner support scheme? But no leaflets arrived, no cheerful volunteers knocked to explain. Just bread. Always the bread.
By the third morning, Harold’s nerves frayed. The precision of the deliveries unnerved him. He snatched up the loaf and marched to the village grocery, confronting the shopkeepera stout woman named Margaretwith trembling hands.
“You lot delivering bread now? Some new promotion?”
Margaret blinked as if he’d lost his mind. “Good Lord, Mr. Whitmore, we sell breadwe dont hand-deliver it like some fairy-tale service!”
The walk home filled him with dread. Poison? A prank? His fingers itched to bin the damned thing.
On the fourth day, he set up an old camcorderonce used for Christmases long pastpointed squarely at the porch.
The footage stopped his heart.
At 4 AM, a silent drone descended like a mechanised spectre, hovering before depositing the loaf with clinical precision. No human hand. No explanation. Just cold, humming machinery in the dead of night.
Hands shaking, Harold rushed to the police station. The officers exchanged glances when he showed the video. One smirked. “Blimey, mate. Youve been enrolled in some startups trial.”
Turns out, a tech firm was testing automated bread deliveries. Harolds address had been added whendays earlierfumbling with his mobile for the weather forecast, hed accidentally clicked an ad. One misplaced tap, and hed signed up for a monthly subscription.
They refunded him. Cancelled the service. But the bread still sat on his counter, untouched.
Those loaves didnt feel like food anymore. They felt like a warning.
