In this world of magic, spells, and sorcery, there was a tiny alcove building tucked into a narrow alleyway. At a glance, it looked like a shabby, forgotten shack wedged between proper houses. But anyone who'd lived in the not-so-small town for long would tell you otherwise. Behind the crooked door and dusty windows was the wandering sorceress' magic shop—odd, unpredictable, but strangely reliable.
As the night deepened, Jill, the young apprentice, dusted the shelves while humming a tune he had learned from Miss. The rhythm was simple, steady, and comforting—fitting for someone who had spent a quarter of his fifteen years under her guidance. Miss had arrived in the village on an uneventful day, yet everything that followed felt anything but ordinary.
---
A few years earlier, on that very day, Miss had wandered through the village with only her trusty magical handibag on her shoulder. She walked as though she were searching for something but hadn't yet decided what it was. Passing a dark alley, she heard the unmistakable sound of a scuffle—shoes scraping on dirt, muffled shouting, the sharp intake of a child's breath.
Stepping inside, she found a small boy cornered by a group of rowdy youngsters. Without raising her voice, she muttered a short incantation, "Domum redisce."
The air stilled. The youngsters froze mid-movement, then turned and walked out of the alley as if sleepwalking. The boy stared at her, tense and ready to bolt.
Miss approached him like one would approach a stray cat—unhurried, careful. "Why were they harassing you, young mister?" she asked, her tone neutral but not unkind.
The boy blinked, unsure she meant him, then pointed at himself in disbelief. In a thin, rushed voice he said, "They wanted to take my home after my grandfather died. But Grandfather told me to look after it and clean it every day and…" His words faded into silence, swallowed by the alley's shadows.
"And where is your house?" Miss asked.
He pointed to the gate he had been sitting in front of—the wood splintered, the hinges crooked.
"And your family?"
"There's no one," he said, shrinking in on himself.
Miss nodded once, as if arriving at a conclusion. "Alright. You'll be my apprentice. And this will be a magic shop."
The boy stiffened. Summoning more courage than he had, he blurted, "N-no! You can't have my house!" He braced for the familiar strike that always followed such defiance.
But nothing came.
Instead, Miss asked calmly, "Why?"
The question confused him more than any threat would have. After a long pause, he whispered, "Grandfather said… b-bad people will take my house and send m-me away."
"I won't," Miss said. "You'll stay here with me."
"He said strangers lie," the boy murmured, barely audible.
Miss didn't answer immediately. Instead, she tilted her head toward the sky, watching the moon climb higher. Minutes passed—quiet, heavy, strangely gentle. Finally she said, "The minuta veritas is about to begin. Ask your question now, and I won't be able to lie."
Above them, the moon shifted from silver to a luminous blue, bathing the alley in an otherworldly glow.
The boy's eyes widened. "Y-you didn't lie earlier, did you?"
"No," she replied. "Satisfied?"
He nodded, relieved enough to breathe again. Then he stood, dusted his worn clothes, and led her inside the ruined house. It wasn't much, but it was his. And for the first time since his grandfather's passing, letting someone in didn't feel dangerous.
That night, under the fading blue moon, Jill lay awake. Why does the minuta veritas exist? he wondered. Is it for children like him who have no reason to trust adults? Or for adults who need proof they mean no harm? Or is it something else entirely?
These questions drifted with him into sleep, unanswered but persistent.
---
Years later, while arranging magical items on the shelves—bottles that hummed faintly, powders that shifted colors depending on the mood of the room—Jill's old curiosity returned without warning.
"Why does the minute of truth exist?" he asked.
Miss paused mid-reach, surprised but not displeased. "There's no confirmed explanation," she said. "But I can tell you the myth, if you'd like."
"Yes… please."
She nodded, then began in her steady, lecture-like voice. "Centuries ago, there was a celestial being whose every spoken word shaped reality. His name was Verus. One day, he noticed a mortal who lied with every breath. At first, Verus despised him. But as he continued to observe, he realised that a lie repeated enough times gains a distorted sort of truth. That bothered him deeply—truth was supposed to be absolute, not something that could be bent by mortals.
"So he went to the other celestials. They agreed that mortal falsehood should never be allowed to tamper with cosmic order. Together, they created the minutum veritas—a single minute in which no mortal could lie."
Miss gave a small, crooked smile. "But personally, I've always found the myth contradictory. If they were so worried about preserving truth, what good is one minute out of an entire lifetime?"
Her gaze drifted to the shelves, to the strange artifacts, to the faintly glowing moonstone jar near the window. "Still… myths survive for a reason. Maybe someone needed them to."
Miss's explanation lingered in the air, settling between jars of shimmering dust and enchanted trinkets that hummed faintly in their glass containers. Jill stood beside her, hands still resting on a half-arranged stack of vials, but his mind had gone elsewhere.
"So… the minute of truth was meant to keep mortals honest?" he asked softly.
Miss gave a noncommittal shrug. "Perhaps. Or perhaps the celestials were simply tired of listening to nonsense. Even divine beings have limits."
Her tone was flat as always, but Jill knew her well enough by now to hear the faint humor underneath. He smiled without quite meaning to.
He turned back to the shelf, sliding a jar into place. "Do you think the celestials ever regretted making it?"
Miss didn't answer immediately. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, gaze drifting to the window where the evening light had begun to thin into dusk. "If they did," she said eventually, "they never changed it back. So maybe that's all the answer we get."
Jill absorbed that quietly. The minute of truth—for all its strangeness, for all the questions it raised—had once saved him. It had cut through all the fear and uncertainty of that night and given him one solid place to stand.
Miss must have noticed something in his expression, because she added, almost grudgingly, "It's not a perfect system. One minute can't fix everything."
"No," Jill said. "But sometimes it's enough."
Miss huffed, the closest she ever got to a laugh. "Sentimental child."
He grinned. "You kept me."
"You refused to leave," she countered.
"That too."
She clicked her tongue but didn't deny it. And that, Jill thought, was as good as any confession.
A comfortable silence settled over the shop. Outside, the alley lanterns flickered to life, their warm glow creeping through the cracks in the wooden door. Inside, the shelves were straightened, the air smelled faintly of herbs and smoke, and the world felt—if only for this moment—steady.
Miss pushed herself off the counter and gestured toward the small kettle in the back. "Enough questions for today. Make tea."
Jill nodded and headed toward the little hearth. "Mint or hibiscus?"
"Mint," she said, then added, almost as an afterthought, "And Jill?"
He paused, turning to her.
Miss looked at him with that same expression she'd worn under the blue moon years ago—distant, thoughtful, and yet undeniably sincere. "You've done well," she said. "Your grandfather would be annoyed that he was wrong… but he would be proud."
Warmth spread through Jill's chest—quiet, grounding, steady. Like the shop. Like Miss.
He bowed his head slightly. "Thank you."
The kettle began to warm, filling the small alcove with a soft hum. Outside, the world of magic, spells, and sorcery went on as usual. People lied, truths shifted, and the moon kept its secrets.
But inside the tiny alleyway shop, an apprentice and his master worked side by side, shaping a life that didn't need a celestial minute to be honest.
It already was enough..