Slightly askew. Papa’s eye twitched. For weeks, the family portrait of Autumn, himself, and his late wife had hung just a fraction off-center above the mantelpiece. An invisible force seemed to pull it perpetually to the left. Papa had tried to ignore it, but today, a fresh wave of domestic energy surged through him. He would conquer this crookedness. He would restore order. He would make his wife’s smiling face truly level. This was his mission. He gathered his tools. A small hammer, a sturdy level, a tape measure. He even pulled out a pencil, freshly sharpened, ready to mark the wall with precision. Autumn was at school, Rumbly the robot vacuum was charging silently in its corner. The house felt quiet, save for Papa’s determined hum. He stepped onto a small stool. Fingers grasped the ornate wooden frame. Gently, he lifted the painting from its hook. Dust motes danced in the sliver of sunlight. He blew lightly, clearing the grime from the top edge. The wall behind it showed a faint, lighter rectangle where the light hadn’t reached. Papa scrutinized the hook. It seemed sturdy enough. Perhaps the nail itself had shifted. He pulled the old nail free with a grunt. A tiny puff of plaster dust bloomed. He tapped the new spot he’d chosen, just a hair to the right, to compensate for the mysterious lean. The new nail sank in cleanly. He hung the painting again, his brow furrowed in concentration. Stepped back. Squinted. It still looked… off. His shoulders slumped slightly. Electro, within the cool metal shell of the breaker box, felt a jolt of irritation. Papa’s technique was sloppy. His measurement, eyeballed as it was, entirely inaccurate. The painting had been perfectly level before, in the subtle, magnetic field Electro had established months ago. It was aligned with the house’s energy flow, with the very ley lines of the living room. Papa had just disrupted perfect harmony. Unacceptable. A subtle surge of power ran through the wiring in the wall. Barely perceptible. A tiny, almost imperceptible tremor. The nail in the plaster, barely seated, began to yield. Inch by imperceptible inch, the painting shifted. It settled. Back into its original, *correct* position. Papa blinked. He rubbed his eyes. Had he imagined it? He’d sworn it had been leaning left. Now, it looked… perfectly straight. A small, triumphant smile touched his lips.

Chapter 13: The Case of the Re-Hung Painting