It started with a sinkhole that hummed at night. After that, people began bringing them things: maps with no landmarks, clocks that refused to strike twelve, dreams that wouldn't stay dreams.

She arrived first, uninvited but expected, collecting anomalies like others collect stamps. He followed, slower, burdened by structure and a past heavy with logic. Together, they opened a small office with no name on the door. People came anyway.

They don’t advertise. They rarely explain. Still, the cases come, each one a quiet rupture in the fabric of the world. A field where time folds in half. A town that forgets itself every third Thursday. A letter that writes back.

They investigate without certainty, disagree often, and sometimes get it right. They are not heroes. They are not always helpful. But they stay, because something is pulling at the seams, and someone has to notice.

Even if noticing changes everything.