Part I: The Road In
The road had been straight for miles, too straight — as if daring Sol to question it. It sliced through the hills like certainty through a conversation, all gravel and hush, with trees that leaned away from it, suspicious. The sky above had gone that strange, bruised violet of late dusk, where the light wasn't gone but had clearly packed its bags.
Sol's legs ached, but they kept pedaling, one slow churn at a time. The bike's gears clicked with a steady, stubborn rhythm. Ash trotted behind, a red fox today, with one ear flopped and a theatrical limp that didn't seem to slow him down. He always chose an inconvenient form when the mood felt off. A fox with a limp was his way of saying: Be on your guard.
The wind picked up, brushing the tips of the grass like fingers across piano keys, and brought with it something strange: the faint, powdery scent of chalkboards and freshly printed leaflets.
They crested a ridge, and suddenly — there it was.
The town sat nestled in a too-perfect valley, as if painted into place by someone with a ruler and no imagination. Every house looked precisely three windows wide. Every garden was weedless. Trees stood like obedient soldiers along eerily symmetrical paths. Fences sparkled unnaturally white, the color of overconfidence.
Ash sat back on his haunches and squinted down at the skyline. "That place thinks it knows something," he said flatly, like it was a warning.
Sol said nothing. They'd learned that places like this liked to speak first — loudly, if you gave them a chance.
As they rolled closer, the signs began.
YOU'RE RIGHT TO BE HERE, declared a cheerful wooden placard, etched in what looked suspiciously like Comic Sans. A little further: TRUTH VALIDATED AHEAD. Then, a towering billboard gleaming with solar-powered smugness: AGREEMENT IS BLISS — WELCOME!
Ash growled softly.
Past the last bend, the road widened, as if the town had anticipated a parade in its honor. The town gates — which weren't really gates so much as two polished marble pillars doing their best impression of modesty — stood wide open. No locks. No guards. Confidence didn't need protection.
The arch above the entrance read, in gold serif letters:
WELCOME TO VEREVALE
"Where Certainty Lives."
Sol coasted to a stop just before the threshold. The air felt different here — not heavier, but tighter. As if every breath had to be squared and proven before you were allowed to exhale. A faint hum echoed from somewhere inside, like a dozen people clearing their throats at once.
Ash padded up beside them and shook himself, ears twitching.
"Last chance to turn around," he offered, but without real hope.
Sol adjusted the strap on their bag, clicked the kickstand down, and said, "Let's see what being 'right' feels like."
They crossed into the town.
And the gates — of course — didn't creak shut.
They didn't need to.
Part II: First Glance
They were barely a block in when the town introduced itself, not with fanfare or welcome baskets, but with a man who radiated the sort of polished enthusiasm usually reserved for motivational speakers and cult leaders. He stepped into their path like a crossing guard of self-assurance, waving his clipboard as if it were a flag of victory.
"Ah! You're lucky," he said, teeth gleaming beneath a sweater vest the color of optimism. "It's Right Day!"
Ash, now walking beside Sol as a tall girl with three long braids and glasses so smudged they looked frosted, raised an eyebrow. Her expression hovered between confusion and exhaustion — the look of someone who already regretted asking, but did it anyway.
"Isn't every day Right Day here?" she asked.
The man laughed — a hearty, too-loud sort of laugh that felt rehearsed, like he told this joke often and never tired of it.
"Well, yes," he beamed, "but today, everyone's especially right. Extra right. Even more than usual!"
He held out a shiny sticker like a prize. "Certified Correct!" it read, in shimmering gold.
Ash didn't take it. Sol merely nodded politely, stepping around the man as if he'd just offered to sell them eternal wisdom in exchange for their shoes.
The town stretched out before them in suspicious harmony. Shops lined the main road, each one displaying signs that pulsed with a smug glow: WE TOLD YOU SO, TRUTH-TASTED COFFEE, FACTS ONLY ZONE — ENTER WITH CONFIDENCE.
Every building had the same architectural tone — like they'd all agreed on a single blueprint and dared anyone to question it. White walls. Symmetrical windows. Clean. Too clean. The streets had not a pebble out of place. Even the pigeons seemed to walk in straight lines.
The people, though — the people were stranger still.
Everyone smiled. Not the kind of smile that reached the eyes, but the brittle, breath-holding kind — as if to frown might summon a tribunal. Children played in the park nearby, but not like ordinary children. They weren't shrieking or chasing each other. No one was crying or tattling. Instead, they stood in clusters, arguing over the shape of the clouds.
"It's a duck," one girl insisted, pointing skyward with all the finality of a weather reporter.
"No," her friend snapped back. "It's obviously a submarine with tiny wings."
"It's a grandfather riding a camel!"
They shouted over one another, each convinced. Each correct, apparently.
Ash leaned closer to Sol and whispered, "This place is doomed."
Sol didn't reply. They were watching a group of elderly women gathered near a fountain — not gossiping, not feeding birds, but folding towels with the intensity of generals planning a siege.
"No, no, no, triangle fold first!" one barked, slapping the cloth with righteous indignation.
"Only sociopaths start with a triangle," another snapped, though her voice was chipper, like she was discussing biscuits.
No one was upset. That was the unsettling part. They argued with all the energy of battle, but none of the bitterness. As if the mere act of believing made their position invincible, and being challenged only polished it brighter.
A small parade of teenagers marched past, chanting, "WE'RE NOT WRONG! WE'RE JUST ADVANCED!" They carried signs shaped like exclamation points.
Ash took a slow step back. "I don't like it here," she murmured. "The smiles feel… tight."
Sol agreed, but with a glance instead of words. They passed a bakery — or at least what claimed to be a bakery — with a window display filled with bread shaped like quotation marks. The sign above read: BAKED TRUTHS — FRESH DAILY.
Ash adjusted her glasses, though it didn't help. "Is it me," she asked, "or is everything trying to win?"
Sol looked down the street, past a bus stop labeled LOGICAL DESTINATIONS ONLY, toward a statue of a man shaking hands with himself.
"No," they said. "It's not just you."
From somewhere nearby, a chorus of voices broke into applause. They rounded the corner to find a street performer declaring the moon was made of caramel. A small crowd cheered. A woman in a sunhat wiped away a tear. "I always knew it," she whispered.
Ash groaned and muttered, "I give this place three days before it folds in on its own certainty."
Sol looked around at the perfect buildings, the perfectly happy people, the carefully maintained delusions stitched into the cobblestones.
"Three days is generous," they said.