There was nothing unusual about the house, until she tried to leave it. She had designed it herself. Every wall, every doorway, every inch measured and deliberate. So when the exits stopped working, she knew it wasn’t a structural flaw. It was something worse. Something intentional. She walked the halls slowly, tracing the lines she had once drawn on paper. Everything was exactly as she remembered—except for one detail. A room that shouldn’t exist. It stood at the end of a corridor she didn’t recall designing, its door slightly ajar. Inside, there was nothing but a table. And a jar. The jar contained a miniature version of the house. Her house. She leaned closer, heart racing, and saw something impossible—tiny figures moving inside it. Walking the halls. Opening doors. Trying to leave. One of them looked up. It was her. She staggered back, knocking the jar slightly. Inside, the tiny house trembled. The figures panicked. Understanding dawned slowly, horribly. She hadn’t designed a house. She had designed a system. And now she was inside it. In desperation, she smashed the jar. The world fractured instantly. Walls split. Space collapsed inward. Moments later, she found herself seated in a courtroom, disoriented and shaking. Experts testified about experimental architecture, spatial anomalies, and theoretical constructs. Her name appeared again and again. The judge thanked them politely and asked to see the jar.