Adventure Quest-  The Cuckoo’s Secret
Guild:  Double D’s

I pushed open the door to the Clock Room at exactly  not-quite-noon .
That's a time you only get in houses like this.

The air was thick with ticking—polite ticks, anxious ticks, offended ticks. A grandfather clock cleared his throat and decided not to strike, out of spite. Somewhere, a pocket watch giggled and pretended it wasn't late for anything.

I found the cuckoo clock halfway up the west wall, wedged between an aristocratic pendulum clock and a wall giant that thundered like it had unresolved issues. The cuckoo's little door was painted with mountains that had definitely never existed, and the bird inside was already awake.

She was polishing her beak.

“Ah,” she said, without coming out. “You're early. Or late. I forget which one annoys you more.”

The Secret

At precisely  three and a half sighs past the hour , the cuckoo popped out.

“Listen,” she said. "Or don't. Either way, I'm telling you."

She revealed that  time in the House doesn't flow forward .

It  wanders .

It takes detours through cupboards. It naps in armchairs. It hides behind curtains when responsibilities knock. And sometimes—when the clocks argue loudly enough—it loops back on itself just to see if anyone notices.

“But that's not the secret,” she added, waving a wing dismissively. “That's obvious.”

The real secret, she said, was this:

When someone listens carefully— really  listens—time becomes generous. Lost moments return. Apologies arrive early. Pie leftovers mysteriously reappear.

But when someone listens too hard, writes everything down, tries to  control  the ticking…

Well.

That's how you end up reliving the same awkward conversation seventeen times or arriving at a birthday party before the cake exists.

“And the pie?” I asked.

She smiled.

"The pie ate itself. I merely suggested it could."   So, Why Should (or Shouldn't) I Listen to you? I asked

The cuckoo leaned closer, lowering her voice.

“You should listen because I tell the truth sideways. You'll hear what you need, not what you want.”

She paused.

"But you should  not  listen if you plan to argue with time afterward. Time hates feedback."

Behind us, a minute hand stretched, yawned, and moved backward out of sheer defiance.

The cuckoo retreated into her clock.

“One more thing,” she called, just before the door snapped shut.

"If I ever call at the wrong hour—believe me. That's the right moment pretending to be wrong."

The Clock Room exhaled. The ticking softened. Somewhere in the House, someone found the last piece of pie exactly where they weren't looking.

And I understood why the cuckoo is considered unreliable.

She never lies.

She just refuses to be useful on purpose. 🕰🦉

In the labyrinthine bowels of the Mystery House, where doorknobs giggled at intruders and staircases rearranged themselves like indecisive snakes, the Timesmith’s room was a chaotic symphony of ticking madness. Clocks melted like Salvador Dalí’s fever dreams, sundials argued with moonbeams, and at the epicenter loomed the infamous cuckoo clock—crafted from the petrified toenails of Father Time himself, or so the rumors squawked. This avian abomination didn’t just cuckoo; it erupted hourly with secrets so profound they could curdle milk, whispered in a voice that sounded like a kazoo gargling gravel. The Timesmith, a wild-eyed loon with a mustache that doubled as a bird’s nest, had once tried to silence it with a comically oversized cork, only for the cuckoo to retaliate by pecking his timeline into a pretzel knot, turning Tuesdays into perpetual April Fools’ Days.

One stormy afternoon—because why not add lightning for dramatic flair?—as the Timesmith juggled flaming hourglasses (don’t ask), the cuckoo burst forth and divulged its ultimate whopper: “Time is actually a herd of invisible elephants stampeding through a cosmic china shop; ignore them, and you’ll slip on banana peels of destiny!” The Timesmith, ever the gullible genius, listened intently and attempted to lasso these pachyderm phantoms. Success? Sort of. He gained the power to rewind awkward conversations, but at the cost of his socks spontaneously combusting every leap second. Listening proved hilariously hazardous: one heeded secret led to him reliving a disastrous date with a sentient calendar, where every “I love you” echoed into infinity, driving him to madness amid floating day planners. The cuckoo, perched smugly, approved with a feathery wink, for who wouldn’t chuckle at a man wrestling temporal tusks?

But oh, the glorious folly of not listening! Defying the bird’s babble turned time into a slapstick circus—pigeons of procrastination pooping opportunities from the skies, elephants trumpeting surprise parties at midnight. The Timesmith, cotton-balled and carefree, once ignored a secret so epic it caused his beard to grow sentient and start a rebellion, tying him up in hairy knots while the Mystery House hosted a rave for rogue minutes. Yet, in this absurdity, magic bloomed: lost socks reunited, forgotten punchlines landed perfectly, and the cuckoo, far from offended, joined the chaos by moonwalking out of its door. For the true secret, whether hearkened or heckled, was that time’s absurdity was its finest jest—better to laugh with the elephants than get trampled by the punchline.

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Tara 🇺🇸 031cde
Guild: Double D’s

I strolled back into the Detective’s Room after my date with Evelyn—sharp tongue, killer curves, and a laugh that could disarm a bomb. Felt invincible, humming some old jazz tune, until my gaze hit the Circle of Suspects pinned to the wall like a bad hangover. There she was: the Fateful Spy, aka the Doom Dame, her portrait looming with that infamous soul-piercing stare. Legend had it the painting smiled at the pure-hearted, squinted at schemers, and frowned if you’d crossed her—like forgetting her favorite earring or blabbing state secrets over pasta.

One double-take later and the sardonic chuckle died in my throat. Those eyes, that sly half-smile… it was Evelyn. My Evelyn. The woman who’d just spent three hours charming the pants off me at that rooftop bistro was the very portrait in my files—the one who’d ended up in the Circle after a string of leaked intel pointed straight to her. “Well, aren’t I the genius detective,” I muttered sarcastically, rubbing my temples. The painting, traitor that it was, shifted right then—lips curving into a full, wicked grin aimed squarely at me. No squint. No frown. Just pure, amused approval.

Turns out the twist was on everyone: Evelyn wasn’t the Doom Spy at all—she was framed by my smug rival, who’d planted her photo and forged the evidence to settle an old score. What the portrait hid (tucked behind the canvas) was a tiny love note in her handwriting: “If you’re reading this after our date, handsome, you already know I’m innocent. Coffee tomorrow to close the real case?” Love won, obviously. I torched the file, slipped the earring I’d “forgotten” back into her hand when she knocked later, and we walked out arm-in-arm. Case closed—suspects circle disbanded, soul portrait now just a cheeky wedding gift.

Отредактировано Tara 031cde (2026-01-30 04:07:40)

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Tara 🇺🇸 031cde
Guild: Double D’s

Adventure Quest - Detective's Room and the Fateful Spy
Double D's

The portrait was hung slightly crooked, as if even the wall couldn't quite trust it. The Fateful Spy gazed out from her frame with the serene confidence of someone who knew where every secret was buried—and had packed a shovel just in case. In the Detective's Room, portraits usually behaved themselves, but hers had a habit of changing expression when the lights flickered. I once swore she winked at me. That was the same night the embassy codes vanished and my coffee turned up poisoned. Coincidence, sure. This room eats coincidences for breakfast.
She ended up in the Circle of Suspects because too many things went right when she was nearby. Locked doors opened. Guards sneezed at the wrong moment. Microfilms slipped neatly into coat pockets that definitely hadn't been empty five seconds earlier. Everyone remembered her as “charming” or “polite” or “oh dear, what was her name again?”—the classic fog that follows professionals. Her file was spotless in the way only expertly cleaned messes are. No fingerprints. No alibi strong enough to stand on its own.

The portrait, though, hid more than brushstrokes and varnish. Under ultraviolet light, her eyes didn't reflect—they were recorded. Tiny mirrored lenses, embedded like jewels, captured whoever stood before her. Smile at her, and she smiled back, cataloging your tells. Squint suspiciously, and she noted your doubts. The frown? That was for people who'd lied badly. The painting wasn't watching the room. It was studying it.

I thought she was guilty until the night the wall map whispered her name—not as an accusation, but as a warning. The real leak wasn't the woman in the frame; it was the maid who dusted her every morning and hummed old anthems backward. She'd planted the portrait as a decory, a beautiful distraction with just enough danger to draw suspicion. Meanwhile, she walked free, collecting secrets like souvenirs.

When we finally pulled the portrait down, her expression softened—almost relieved. Innocent? Not exactly. She was a spy, after all. But framed? Absolutely. As they carried her out, I could've sworn she smiled at me one last time. Or maybe that was just the light. In the Detective's Room, even the truth knows how to wear a disguise.

CASE FILE #47-823 SUBJECT: "Fateful Spy" Portrait Investigation
INVESTIGATING OFFICER: Sgt. Joe Friday, Badge 714
DATE: Thursday, 1847 hours

The facts were these:
I stood in the Detective's Room at 1847 hours on a Thursday. I was tired and grouchy. The air conditioning was broken. The coffee was cold. And the portrait on the crime board was smiling at me.
I don't trust smiles.
My partner, Frank, had gone for sandwiches twenty minutes ago. That left me alone with the crime board of organized chaos that some joker with a psychology degree would probably call "creative filing."
I called it… just another Thursday.
The portrait measured eight by ten inches. Standard issue for suspects. The subject: one female, identity unknown, occupation listed as "spy," threat level marked as "fateful." Whatever that meant. In my twenty years on the force, I'd arrested embezzlers, con artists, murderers, and one guy who tried to rob a bank with a clarinet. But "fateful"? That was a new one.
I pulled out my notebook. Started writing.
1852 hours: Portrait subject displays slight smile. Expression appears... knowing. Like she's in on a joke and I'm the punchline.
I stepped closer. The smile seemed to shift. Or maybe it was the lighting. The lighting in the Detective's Room is “suspect,” too. So are the filing cabinets, which sometimes slide open at will.
This city.
"Alright," I said to the portrait. "Let's go through this one more time."
The facts: Three weeks ago, someone had stolen the Ambassador's briefcase from a locked room at the Biltmore Hotel. No forced entry. No witnesses. Just one calling card left behind—a lipstick-stained cocktail napkin with the words "Better luck next time, darling."
The lab boys ran the lipstick. Shade: "Dangerous Red." Available at approximately four thousand retail locations nationwide.
Not helpful.
Then two weeks ago, classified documents went missing from City Hall. Same M.O. Locked office. No signs of entry. Another napkin. This one said: "You really should invest in better locks."
She had a point.
One week ago, the Mayor's private correspondence vanished from his desk drawer while he was sitting at the desk. He claimed he looked away for thirty seconds to answer the phone. When he looked back, the letters were gone. In their place: a napkin reading "You're welcome for the editing."
Whoever she was, she had style. And a serious napkin budget.
1856 hours: Portrait subject's expression has changed. Now appears to be squinting. Appraising. Judging my tie, probably. It's a good tie. Bought it in 1952.
I checked the evidence board. We'd interviewed forty-seven suspects. All forty-seven had alibis tighter than a drum.
None of them matched the woman in the portrait.
But here's the thing about the portrait—and this is where it got interesting: Seven different witnesses had given seven different descriptions of the woman they'd seen near the crime scenes. Blonde. Brunette. Redhead. Tall. Short. Young. Middle-aged. It was like describing seven different people.
But when we showed them this portrait, every single one of them said: "That's her."
1859 hours: The portrait is now frowning. Slightly. Like I've disappointed her somehow. I checked my pockets. I don't have anyone's earring. I didn't reveal any state secrets, unless you count telling Frank that the Captain's toupee looks like a deceased hamster, and that's not a state secret. That's just observation.
I heard footsteps in the hallway. Frank, probably, with pastrami on rye and a complete disregard for my cholesterol.
But the footsteps stopped outside the door. Waited. Then continued past.
The back of my neck tingles. The hair on my arms stand up. A fleeting thought races through my head like "she's here."
I turned back to the portrait. The expression had changed again. Now she looked amused. One eyebrow slightly raised, like she was asking a question.
That's when I noticed something I'd missed before.
In the corner of the portrait, barely visible, was a small inscription. I leaned in, squinted. The letters were tiny:
"You're looking at the wrong suspect, Detective."
I froze.
That wasn't there this morning. I've studied this portrait for hours on end. I would've noticed.
1903 hours: Evidence suggests portrait may be... interactive? Note to self: stop drinking the office coffee. Also: request psychological evaluation. Also: retire.
I reached for my phone to call the lab. That's when I saw it.
On my desk, next to my cold coffee and the stack of unsolved cases, was a cocktail napkin. Fresh. Recently placed.
I picked it up. Read the message written in elegant script:
"The portrait doesn't hide anything, Sergeant Friday. It reveals everything. You've been looking at suspects all week, but you never looked at the detective who always knows where to find them. Ask yourself: how did this portrait end up on your crime board? Who brought it in? PS - Your tie is very 1952. In a good way."
I spun around.
The Detective's Room was empty. The door was closed. The window was locked from the inside.
But the portrait—
The portrait was smiling again. Full smile this time. The kind of smile that said she'd beaten me fair and square, and we both knew it.
1906 hours: Frank returned with sandwiches. Asked why I was staring at the portrait. Told him I wasn't sure anymore. He said the pastrami was extra lean. I told him to check who logged this portrait into evidence.
1914 hours: Records show portrait was logged by "Detective Anonymous" three weeks ago. The day before the first theft. There is no Detective Anonymous on the force.
1915 hours: Portrait now displays neutral expression. Professional. Like a suspect who's just lawyered up.
The facts were these: Someone had been stealing classified materials for three weeks. Someone had been leaving calling cards. Someone had placed a portrait in my squad room. And that someone was smiling at me right now from an eight-by-ten.
I closed my notebook.
"Ma'am," I said to the portrait, "when you're ready to come in for questioning, you know where to find me. I'll be the one with the good tie and the bad coffee."
The portrait's expression didn't change. But I could've sworn I saw the hint of a wink.
1918 hours: Requesting backup. And possibly a drink. And definitely a new crime board that doesn't smile back.
This city.

CASE STATUS: Open
SUSPECT STATUS: At large. And apparently, right here on the wall.
NEXT STEPS: Watch the portrait. And maybe the coffee.
END REPORT

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