I once came to a town that kept rewiring itself each dawn. Every morning the streets were the same in the newspaper, but if you walked out the way you’d see the main square had swapped places with the docks, the bridge had melted into a maze of stone arches, and the church bell rang a different tune. The locals called it the “shifting heart” and said the ground itself had a pulse—if you followed the rhythm of the wind you could find a door to a valley that no map ever captured. I’ve never stopped wondering who built that place and what it was trying to hide. What about you?