Eli knew the route home by muscle memory.
Left at the convenience store. Two blocks down. Right at the old laundromat. Straight until the bus stop.
He'd walked it for years.
So when the street ended in a brick wall, his brain refused to process it.
Eli stopped short, staring.
The wall wasn't new. It looked old—weathered, tagged, part of the city forever. Except it wasn't supposed to be there. This street had always continued straight into Oak Avenue.
He pulled out his phone, irritation rising.
The map rotated.
The blue dot marking his location blinked… then slid sideways.
Oak Avenue bent.
The laundromat vanished.
A new road appeared, unlabeled.
"What the hell," Eli muttered.
A cyclist passed behind him and didn't even slow down—like the wall had always been there, like Eli was the weird one for stopping.
"Hey," Eli called out. "Wasn't there a street here?"
The cyclist glanced back, confused. "This is the street."
Eli's chest tightened.
He backed away and tried another route. Then another.
Each one shifted—alleys narrowing, buildings changing height, intersections appearing where none should exist. Nothing dramatic. No flashing lights. Just subtle rearrangements.
Like the city was gently correcting him.
By the time he reached home, it had taken him forty minutes longer than usual.
That night, Eli spread out every map he could find—old guidebooks, printed bus routes, screenshots from his phone.
None of them matched.
Lines drifted. Names blurred. Entire blocks flickered in and out of existence.
One map, folded deep in his dad's old drawer, felt different.
He opened it carefully.
It didn't move.
In the corner, written in faded ink, were five words:
Cities change.
Maps lie.
Memory doesn't.
Eli swallowed.
Whatever was happening wasn't random.
And now the city knew he was watching.