The man in the gray suit arrived on a Tuesday, just as the rain began to fall. He had no name, only a badge that read "Department of Anomalies," and he carried a briefcase that never opened. He stood at the edge of the old town square, where the cobblestones were worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, and watched the people pass by with an expression that was neither friendly nor hostile—just empty. No one knew what the Department of Anomalies did, but they had been around for decades, always appearing when something strange happened. The townspeople whispered about them, but they never asked questions. It was easier that way. The first sign of something unusual came when the clocks in the town square stopped. Not all at once, but one by one, each ticking second slowing until they halted completely. The mayor, a stout man with a mustache and a deep voice, tried to fix them, but the gears inside were frozen, as if time itself had been caught in a net. Then the lights went out. Not the streetlights, but the ones inside every house, shop, and office. People turned on their switches, but nothing happened. No flicker, no hum, just silence. The power company sent engineers, but they found no damage, no faults—just dead wires and dark circuits. They left without a word. That night, the sky turned green. Not the usual green of twilight, but a sickly, pulsing hue that made the trees seem to lean inward, as if listening. Birds flew in circles above the town, making no sound, their wings cutting through the air like silent blades. A child named Lily saw a shadow move behind her bedroom window, but when she looked, there was nothing there. The man in the gray suit appeared again the next morning, this time standing outside the library. He didn’t speak, but he held up his badge and pointed to the door. A librarian named Mrs. Holloway, who had worked there for thirty years, hesitated before opening it. Inside, the books were all missing. Not just the shelves, but the entire collection—gone, as if they had never existed. The only thing left was a single page floating in midair, its ink shifting slowly into words that no one could read. By the third day, the town had changed. The buildings were the same, but the people moved differently, their eyes hollow, their voices soft. They spoke in riddles, answering questions with phrases that made no sense. A baker named Tom said, “The bread is not bread,” and when he handed it to a customer, it crumbled to dust in their hands. The man in the gray suit returned, this time with a woman beside him. She wore a long coat that shimmered like oil on water, and her eyes were black voids. She placed a small box on the town hall table and told everyone to look inside. No one dared, but the box was open, revealing a single white feather. When someone reached for it, the feather vanished, and the person’s hand became transparent, as if they were being erased from reality. The last thing the townspeople remembered was the sound of a clock ticking again, but it wasn’t the town square’s clocks. It was coming from everywhere at once, a low, rhythmic pulse that vibrated through the ground. Then, silence. And then, nothing. The man in the gray suit and the woman with the oil-like coat disappeared, leaving only the feather on the table. No one knows what happened to the town, or why the Department of Anomalies chose it. Some say they were testing something, others believe they were trying to protect the world from a greater evil. But the truth remains hidden, like the lost books and the silent birds, waiting for someone to listen. And if you ever hear the sound of a clock ticking in a place where there are none, don’t look up. Just walk away, and don’t stop until you’re sure you’re safe. Because sometimes, the government doesn’t hide secrets—they remember them.