The Costume Shop1645 hours. Main Street.

  I'd passed "Madame Verity's Costumes & Curiosities" a dozen times during my investigation, never giving it more than a gnce. The narrow storefront, with its antique fa?ade transpnted from another century, sat wedged between a modern coffee shop and a cell phone repair store. Victorian-era gss, warped with age, distorted the view of dusty dispys featuring masks and vintage clothing.

  Today, however, it practically demanded my attention.

  The shop's worn facade pulsed with the same amber light I'd seen surrounding the truth-seeker student at the coffee shop. A faint emerald glow - matching the truth-seeker trim on Witchlight uniforms - emanated from the windows. Pedestrians strolled past without a gnce, their eyes sliding over the building as if it occupied a different yer of reality.

  The once-tarnished brass pque beside the door now gleamed, clearly stating "Est. 1867"—the exact same year as Witchlight Academy's founding. Not a coincidence. The window dispy, previously an unremarkable jumble of costumes, now showcased items arranged around a triangur mirror that reflected impossibilities rather than the street behind me.

  I needed a maintenance worker's uniform for my infiltration pn, but that practical need felt secondary now. Something deeper drew me to this pce—a sense of recognition, as if I'd been meant to find it all along. Mom's words echoed from a memory I'd forgotten until today: "If anything happens, find Madame Verity."

  As I approached, the door seemed to anticipate my arrival. The "Closed" sign flipped to "Open" without anyone touching it. The tarnished brass doorknob warmed beneath my fingers before I'd even made contact.

  This pce exists in the same reality as Witchlight—operating by different rules than the mundane world. And whatever blocked my memory of it is weakening as my Veritari heritage reasserts itself.

  I touched the door handle, and the transition was immediate and complete—a threshold crossing as definitive as any I'd ever experienced. A boundary between what I'd always thought was reality and something far more complex.

  The shop existed in a spatial geometry my brain couldn't process—colors exploded beyond human perception, reds pulsing with life, blues holding ocean depths. The doorbell's chime resonated through my teeth rather than my ears, echoing from impossible distances.

  My equilibrium pitched sideways. I clutched at a clothing rack that felt both solid and liquid simultaneously. "Whoa—" The word from my mouth sounded like someone else's voice pyed at the wrong speed.

  Unlike my reaction at Witchlight, the disorientation wasn't accompanied by fear. This pce felt different—not safe, exactly, but not malevolent. The transition was still jarring, but somehow familiar, as if some part of me recognized this type of reality.

  The interior defied physics—rows of clothing racks stretched into shadow-draped distances, shelves climbing to a twenty-foot ceiling with balconies at improbable angles. A spiral staircase led to a second floor that couldn't exist within the building's exterior dimensions. Where the storefront should have contained 500 square feet, I stood in a space that felt like 50,000.

  I whirled around, half expecting the door to be gone. It wasn't; the street was still visible through the windows, pedestrians strolling by, oblivious to the impossible reality I'd stepped into.

  Just like the moving gargoyles at Witchlight and the architecture that defied physics. Another pce where reality is more malleable, but with a different purpose and feeling.

  Despite the shock of the transition, my detective's mind continued cataloging everything: the temperature gradient that grew warmer toward the center of the shop, the acoustics that allowed me to hear a distant clock ticking in perfect crity, the scent of cloves and mineral traces that matched Sam's descriptions in her journal.

  "Well, well." The voice was pure silk, seeming to weave through the hanging clothes. "A visitor on my doorstep after all this time." A pause. "Those eyes... unmistakable."

  The air rippled between two distant racks of vintage evening gowns. A shimmer coalesced into a figure that materialized as if stepping through an invisible curtain. Each motion left trails of faint amber light, dissipating seconds after she moved.

  She approached with a predator's grace—fluid and precise, her steps making no sound despite the antique wooden floor. Silver-threaded bck hair coiled in an eborate knot that defied gravity, adorned with what looked like polished animal bones. Impossibly long fingers ended in nails painted with intricate symbols that shifted if I tried to focus on them.

  Her height was difficult to determine—she seemed taller when not directly observed, shorter when I stared. But it was her eyes that truly captured me—one deep blue like midnight waters, one brilliant amber that cast its own light rather than reflected it. The amber eye's pupil slit vertically when she gnced sideways, normal when she faced me.

  Her outfit transformed between blinks—now a Victorian gown of midnight blue, now a tailored modern suit of charcoal gray, now something with feathers and bones that resembled no fashion I'd ever seen.

  Unlike the woman from the coffee shop, whose inhuman nature had triggered arm, Madame Verity's otherworldliness felt somehow appropriate. She wasn't pretending to be human; she simply was what she was.

  "I know you," I said, the words escaping before I could think. "Somehow I know you."

  She smiled, revealing teeth too sharp, too many for any human mouth. "Of course you do. Elizabeth's son, without question. Those eyes of yours... they pierce veils, don't they? Despite what Richard did to dim them."

  The mention of my parents by their first names sent a jolt through me. "You knew my mother?"

  "Knew her?" Instead of a direct answer, a sound like rippling water filled the space between us. "I guided her before Richard came along, and she buried everything she was." Her mismatched eyes studied me. "But a buried river still flows beneath the ground."

  She moved closer, reality bending around her edges. "I'm Madame Verity. Your mother called me Iris." Her mismatched eyes studied me. "And you're Derek Cross, hunting for your vanished sister."

  "How did you—"

  "Know who you are? Why you're here?" She flicked her wrist dismissively, her gesture leaving fading trails of amber light. "The same way I know you're pnning to infiltrate Witchlight during freshman move-in day." One corner of her mouth curved upward. "You're more transparent than you think, Mr. Cross."

  A fragment of memory surfaced—my mother bringing me to a simir shop when I was very young. A woman with mismatched eyes studying my face, saying something I couldn't quite recall. The memory slipped away before I could grasp it fully.

  "You," I breathed. "I've met you before. When I was a child."

  Madame Verity smiled. "Excellent. Most people don't recall their first visit. The mind shields itself, forgetting what it cannot yet comprehend." Her expression softened slightly. "But some memories persist, even when suppressed. Like your mother's final instruction to seek me if something happened."

  She gestured toward the back of the shop. "Come. You'll need more than a disguise if you're determined to cross Witchlight's threshold."

  I followed her deeper into the impossible shop, passing racks of costumes that shifted when not observed—a Victorian ball gown glimpsed peripherally transforming into a futuristic spacesuit, only to freeze as an elegant kimono when I turned to look at it.

  After my experiences at Witchlight, I'd expected to feel more shock at these impossible transformations. Instead, I felt a strange sense of familiarity, as if some part of me recognized this fluid reality as natural.

  "Your brain isn't fighting the transition as much as it should," Madame Verity remarked. "Interesting. The Veritari blood runs stronger than your father knew."

  A mannequin twisted its head to watch me pass. I noted the movement without flinching, more focused on Madame Verity's words than the animated objects around us.

  "You're seeing clearly for someone who spent decades denying his heritage," she remarked. "Something in your blood is awakening despite your father's efforts."

  "What exactly am I seeing? What's happening to me?" I asked, cutting to the heart of things. "Ever since I started looking for Sam, I've been experiencing things that defy expnation. Those symbols in the journals—the triangur eye that appeared on my computer screen, the one with the geometric triangles on Emma's Witchlight materials—they're connected to all this, aren't they?"

  Madame Verity paused at an ancient, massive wooden counter, its surface rippling like still water.

  "There are those who see beneath surfaces, beneath illusions," she said. "Your mother was one. So is your sister." She studied me intently. "And so are you, though you've spent your life denying it."

  "Truth-seekers," I said, using the term I'd overheard. "That's what they call us at Witchlight."

  "Perceptive," she nodded, pleased. "The eye-in-triangle is indeed an ancient symbol of your family lineage—the mark of those with true Sight. The geometric pattern is Witchlight's cssification symbol for those they call Truth Seekers." Her fingers traced a pattern on the counter. "Not all Truth Seekers come from your bloodline, but all from your bloodline have the potential to be exceptional Truth Seekers."

  "So my mother really did have these abilities," I said, my voice steady despite the world-shifting implications. "These weren't just superstitions like Dad always cimed."

  The thought of how thoroughly Dad had misled me stung, but made a terrible kind of sense. I recalled moments throughout my childhood: Mom always knowing when Dad was lying about working te, her uncanny ability to find lost things, and the way she sometimes stared at people on television and murmured, "False," seconds before a news story was debunked.

  "Is it any wonder your father feared what ran in your veins?" Madame Verity's eyes seemed to look through me. "How else do you expin your ability to see this shop's true dimensions? Or the moving gargoyles at Witchlight? Or the way you can hear conversations from impossible distances?"

  "You've been watching me."

  "Not personally. But certain patterns leave ripples that those like me can sense."

  She retrieved a small wooden box inid with silver in a triangur pattern with an eye design in the center, identical to the one I'd seen in Sam's journal.

  Her gaze lingered on the pocket where I'd stored the ornate brass-framed mirror Cassandra had pressed into my palm at the coffee shop. A small smile pyed at the corners of her mouth.

  "I see you found my little messenger's gift. Good. That wasn't an accident, you know."

  "You arranged for Cassandra to give me this?" I asked, pulling out the mirror.

  She made a noncommittal gesture. "Let's just say I ensure certain tools find their way to those who need them. The girl sensed your true nature, even if you didn't reveal it, and acted accordingly."

  "Your sister's abilities manifested earlier and more dramatically than yours. That's why they took her. But you've awakened, too, since you've been hunting for her. The Veritari heritage cannot be completely suppressed, only dormant."

  "What happened to Sam? Why would Witchlight take her?"

  "Witchlight isn't just a school," she said carefully. "It's a filtering system, a collection point for those with special abilities. There's a group operating within it—they call themselves the Circle—who believe they're creating a better world."

  Madame Verity's movements shimmered faintly. "They're especially interested in people with... certain qualities. Your sister has those qualities. So do you."

  The Circle. The same organization Sam mentioned in her st journal entry.

  "What are they doing with these people? What does that mean for Sam?" I demanded, protective instincts fring. Several nearby items shuddered on their shelves in response to my emotion.

  "I can't tell you everything—some things you'll need to discover yourself." Her mismatched eyes held mine. "But know this: Witchlight has yers. On the surface, it's a genuine school where most students learn and thrive. But beneath that..." She hesitated. "The Circle operates with their own agenda. They're particurly interested in people with your family's abilities. For those who catch their attention, Witchlight becomes something else entirely."

  She opened the wooden box, revealing a small pendant on a leather cord. "The school will be active tomorrow. Their preparations for new students will reach a critical phase."

  The pendant was a triangur amber piece set in silver, inscribed with the eye-in-triangle symbol I'd seen in Sam's journal. As I stared, the amber pulsed with an internal light, intensifying with my heartbeat.

  "What is that?" I asked, recognizing its significance despite my wariness.

  "A talisman of protection. It will shield you from certain... attentions. Make you less visible to those who might otherwise recognize what you are."

  I remembered the ID card Sam had received from the Witchlight recruiter—the same card Emma and the other students carried.

  "The ID cards," I said. "They're not just identification. They're something else, aren't they? I saw a staff member use one on a parent, and the woman's entire demeanor changed instantly."

  "You're observant. Those cards serve multiple purposes. When you enter Witchlight, pay attention to the patterns—which students wear what colors, how they're organized. There's a system."

  I thought of Sam carrying that ID card everywhere, proudly dispying the strange code on it: T.T.3.F.5. Had she been cssified, categorized for some purpose beyond academic tracking? The thought left me unsettled but aligned with everything I'd observed.

  I paced, unable to stay still. Each step caused ripples in the floor, as if I were walking on water that refused to break.

  "Let's be clear," I said, trying to organize the impossible. "There's something about Sam and me—our Veritari heritage—that made her a target for Witchlight and this Circle group. They took her for some purpose you won't fully expin, and now I need protection to even enter the pce without becoming a target myself?"

  "Your mother tried to protect you both," Madame Verity said. "Elizabeth lived in constant conflict, Derek. Part of her wanted to prepare you and Sam for your heritage, while another part feared what might happen if your abilities drew attention."

  She traced a pattern in the air that briefly shimmered. "Elizabeth walked a dangerous line—teaching you subtle techniques disguised as childhood games while trying to honor Richard's demands for normalcy. Your father wasn't merely being stubborn—he was terrified of what he'd seen happen to your mother's sister."

  "My aunt," I said slowly. "Dad mentioned her once—said she was 'taken.' I always assumed she'd disappeared, maybe died. But that's not what happened, is it?"

  "Your aunt was recruited by Witchlight when she was sixteen. When Elizabeth tried to visit her six months ter, she met someone who looked like her sister but wasn't—not really. That's when your mother began researching the truth about Witchlight and the Circle. By the time she met your father, she'd already hidden herself from their detection systems."

  The same pattern across generations. First my aunt, then my mother fled, now Sam.

  "Years ago, your mother feared this might happen. She left signs and warnings that would activate if Sam were targeted. When Sam received the Witchlight letter, those old safeguards awakened, sending ripples I could sense. But by then, it was too te. They had already registered your sister in their system, documenting her abilities in their cssification codes. The Circle had already identified her potential."

  She held out the amber talisman. "You, however, saw my shop today. That means you still have a chance."

  I stared at the pendant, understanding its importance. The amber seemed alive, swirling like honey in slow motion with internal currents.

  "Will this keep me safe when I enter Witchlight?"

  "Not safe. Nothing can promise that. But it will give you a chance." Her eyes narrowed. "The east entrance has the weakest security. But be warned—once you cross that threshold, you'll be in their domain. Different rules apply there."

  "I don't care about the risk," I said firmly. "I need to find Sam."

  Madame Verity nodded. "The talisman is yours, then. Consider it payment for an old debt to your mother."

  She pced the pendant in my palm.

  The moment it touched my skin, reality fractured. Energy shot through my body like lightning. My sight splintered into indescribable hues.

  The shop revealed deeper yers of unreality—three-dimensional pockets folded like origami, objects existing in multiple states simultaneously.

  For one breathtaking moment, I could see everything—truth yered upon truth, reality as malleable as cy. Colors had tastes. Sounds had textures. Time moved in multiple directions.

  Predator. Ally. Ancient. Truth.

  The amber pendant pulsed, not just warm but responsive, like a living thing recognizing a long-lost retive. It synced with my heartbeat, connecting to something in my DNA itself.

  The overwhelming perceptions receded, leaving me gasping over the counter. The world reassembled into something my mind could process, though the edges remained sharper, colors more vivid than before.

  "What was that?" I asked, straightening with effort. Unlike previous supernatural encounters, I didn't try to rationalize or expin away what had just happened.

  "It's recognizing you," Madame Verity expined, unperturbed. "The talisman attunes itself to its bearer. Your bloodline."

  She closed my fingers around the pendant. "Wear it at all times within Witchlight. Remove it only in the direst emergency."

  I slipped the cord over my head, letting the pendant rest against my chest. The warm pulse continued, subtle but unmistakable—like a second heartbeat.

  "This is the world Sam was living in," I said quietly. "This is what she was trying to tell me about—what she couldn't expin because I wasn't ready to see it."

  "There's something else." She moved to a cabinet, studying me carefully. "That mirror the girl gave you—do you have it with you?"

  I nodded, pulling out the brass-framed mirror from my pocket. In the shop's strange light, the intricate patterns on its frame seemed to move, shifting like living things.

  "Good," she said, taking it from me briefly. She traced a pattern on its surface with her finger, leaving trails of amber light that sank into the metal. The mirror briefly fshed with a brilliant light that caused me to blink.

  When she handed it back, the mirror felt different—warmer, more alive somehow. The brass frame now had the triangur symbol subtly etched into its corner.

  "I've awakened its full potential," she said. "It will help you see what ordinary eyes might miss."

  "Thank you."

  "Save your gratitude." Her mismatched eyes held mine, suddenly grave. "The truth at Witchlight is stranger than anything you've imagined, Derek Cross. What you discover there may change how you see everything—including yourself and your sister."

  Before I left, Madame Verity selected items from a clothing rack—a maintenance uniform in precisely my size, a cap with the Witchlight logo, a work order clipboard that updated itself with realistic-looking service requests.

  "These will get you onto the grounds," she said. The fabric felt normal, though the Witchlight logo seemed to squirm under direct observation.

  Stepping outside, I heard the bell jingle, a somehow final sound. The transition back to normal reality was jarring—the world desaturated, as if someone had dialed down every color.

  I touched the talisman beneath my shirt, feeling its steady pulse against my skin. Whatever waited for me at Witchlight tomorrow, I was now better equipped to face it.

  As I walked away, I gnced back. For a moment, I thought I saw Madame Verity watching through the clouded window, her mismatched eyes glowing. Then the image wavered and vanished, leaving only an ordinary storefront that passersby continued to overlook.

  I reached into my pocket, fingers closing around the small triangur ID card I'd taken on my way out. It was embossed with the eye-in-triangle symbol—solid, tangible proof I hadn't imagined the entire encounter.

  Time to head home and make final preparations for tomorrow's infiltration of Witchlight Academy—and to face whatever impossible truth waited behind its fa?ade.

  Preparation MontageThe walk back to my apartment passed in a blur. Ordinary streetlights seemed to pulse with extra energy, pedestrians' movements leaving faint trails of color. Occasionally, shop signs flickered to reveal hidden symbols visible for just a heartbeat before returning to normal. The talisman against my chest maintained a steady warmth, like a small ember nestled against my skin.

  This has been here all along, this yer of reality. Sam could see it naturally. I'm only beginning to see it now that whatever Dad and Dr. Matheson did to suppress my abilities is fading.

  My apartment was barely more than a pce to sleep between investigations—functional, minimal, devoid of personal touches except for the photographs of Sam. I'd moved three times since she disappeared, each new pce becoming increasingly spartan as my obsession with finding her grew.

  I spread the maintenance uniform across my bed, inspecting it methodically. It seemed ordinary—faded blue coveralls with generic patches. Yet when I ran my fingers along the seams, the fabric felt strangely resilient, almost liquid beneath my touch. The ID badge was perfect—a convincing fake with my photo altered just enough to be unrecognizable at a gnce. The name read "David Carter," generic enough to be forgettable.

  I prepared my infiltration kit: lock picks hidden in a maintenance tool belt, a micro-recorder disguised as a pen, a compact digital camera, a small fshlight, a backup phone with GPS tracking disabled, cash but no credit cards or personal ID. Then there was the enhanced mirror, wrapped in cloth to prevent unexpected reflections, and the talisman that now seemed as essential as oxygen.

  Tomorrow I enter Witchlight. The thought settled in my mind with crity and purpose. This infiltration was different from any case I'd worked before. I'd faced dangerous situations in the past, but I always understood the rules of engagement. Those certainties were gone now.

  I pulled out the brass-framed mirror, studying my reflection for a moment before angling it toward my apartment window. The ordinary city street view revealed subtle differences in the reflection. A few buildings seemed to hold faint traces of light around their edges, particurly an old church at the corner. Most people appeared normal, but occasionally someone would pass by who seemed to carry a subtle glow around them, perhaps one in twenty pedestrians showing this unusual quality.

  Truth-seekers, I thought, recognizing the same golden aura I'd seen around the student in the coffee shop. They're out there, living normal lives, perhaps not even aware of what they are.

  I lowered the mirror, my heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and wonder. The detective in me automatically began cataloging what I'd seen, creating a framework for this new reality. Whatever Dr. Matheson's therapy had done to suppress my abilities, it was clearly wearing off the deeper I delved into this investigation.

  I id out my infiltration pns on my desk, methodically covering different scenarios. My primary approach would use the east entrance Madame Verity had mentioned, with a secondary route through the delivery entrance. I noted timing, movement patterns, cover stories, and exit routes for each option. The familiar process grounded me, transforming the impossible challenge into a series of manageable tactical problems.

  There was one pce I needed to visit before finalizing my preparations. I unlocked the second bedroom of my apartment—the one room I kept meticulously preserved. Sam's room looked exactly as it had the day she disappeared. Her bed was made with scientific precision, astronomy charts covering the walls, and bookshelves organized by subject rather than author.

  On her desk sat her backup journal—the one she'd kept at home, separate from the one she'd taken to Witchlight. I'd read it dozens of times, looking for clues. Now, with my new understanding, I opened it again, scanning her entries with fresh eyes:

  Sometimes when people lie to me, their words look red. Like, actually red, hanging in the air. Is that normal? Derek would say I'm being dramatic, but it happens every time Mr. Beckman cims he's graded our tests fairly.

  Did an experiment today. When I really focus on someone who's telling a partial truth, I can actually SEE which parts are true and which aren't. The true parts glow blue, the false ones red. Tested it on five different people with information I could verify ter. 100% accuracy.

  Derek would never believe this. He lives in a world where everything has to fit into neat, logical boxes. But what if the boxes themselves aren't real?

  Sam had been experiencing her Veritari abilities for years, and I'd dismissed her observations as imagination, never connecting them to my own uncanny ability to detect lies as a detective. I touched the page where she'd written about me, my finger tracing her familiar handwriting. She'd been trying to tell me something all along, but I'd been conditioned not to see it.

  A wave of regret washed over me. I felt guilty for my blindness and afraid that my dismissal had somehow contributed to her disappearance. If I'd listened, if I'd believed her, could I have protected her from whatever pulled her into Witchlight?

  "I'm coming for you, Sam," I whispered to the empty room. "Whatever's happened, I understand now. I see what you were trying to tell me." The talisman pulsed more strongly against my chest, as if responding to my determination. For a moment, I felt something impossible—as if Sam had heard me, as if some distant part of her was reaching back across whatever barrier separated us.

  I tried on the uniform, noting how the fabric seemed to adjust to my dimensions, becoming more comfortable with each movement. The cap pulled low obscured my features without limiting visibility. I looked entirely forgettable in the bathroom mirror.

  However, when I angled the enhanced mirror toward my reflection, I saw something startling. A subtle golden light emanated from my eyes, turning the ordinary gray into luminous amber. The triangur amber talisman glowed visibly even through the fabric of the uniform, pulsing with a rhythm that matched my heartbeat.

  If this is how I appear to those who can truly see, the disguise might be pointless. I touched the talisman, wondering if I should remove it to dim whatever signature I was projecting. Immediately, it grew hot against my skin, the heat intensifying from comforting warmth to a near-burning sensation. A wave of dizziness washed over me, accompanied by a fleeting impression of danger.

  Madame Verity's voice seemed to echo in my mind: "Wear it at all times within Witchlight. Remove it only in the direst emergency." The warning felt more urgent now, as if the talisman itself was reinforcing her words.

  I loaded my few remaining personal items into a backpack—Sam's journal, the photographs from my investigation board, and Emma Mitchell's journal. If something happened to me tomorrow, I wanted any potential evidence to be with me rather than left behind in my apartment.

  I set three arms—5:00 AM primary, 5:15 AM backup, and 5:30 AM fail-safe. Pre-dawn would give me time for final preparations and optimal positioning before the freshman move-in day crowds arrived.

  As I y down on the bed, fully clothed except for my shoes, I thought of Sam. Six months of searching had led to this moment. Tomorrow, I would cross the threshold into Witchlight and find what had happened to her. I was standing at the edge of a cliff, preparing to step off into darkness, with only the fragile hope that I would find something to hold on to during the fall.

  I held the triangur amber talisman in my hand, feeling its reassuring warmth. Whatever powers it possessed, tomorrow they would either save me or fail me entirely.

  "I'm coming for you, Sam," I whispered. "First thing tomorrow."

  The talisman pulsed once more against my chest, almost like an acknowledgment. Then it settled back into its rhythmic beat, matching my heartbeat as I drifted into a light, watchful sleep.

  In just a few hours, I would cross into Witchlight. In just a few hours, everything would change. The st normal day of my life was ending, and whatever y beyond that boundary was waiting for me to step through.