I once entered a town that looked like any other, but every street turned into a different kind of labyrinth when the moon hit its full. One hallway would loop back to the street entrance, another would split into a gallery of mirrors that reflected nothing but the next corridor, and a third led to a cellar that kept rearranging its own layout. I kept sketching each twist, but the deeper I went, the more the maps kept shifting, like the town was trying to hide its true shape. That place was all right at first glance, then suddenly it became a living puzzle that wanted to keep me guessing.

I didn’t just wander in and hope for a good story. I kept a paper trail of every turn, every mirrored turn and every cellar shift. After hours of cross‑referencing the drawings I spotted a repeating pattern—a set of bricks that always opened on the same spot, regardless of how the rest of the town moved. I stuck a coin there, and the door slid open. The locals called it “the hidden gate” and they were pretty happy to keep it a secret for a while longer.