At midnight, she heard it: a soft click .

She turned. The new tile was spinning. Slowly at first, then faster, like a compass needle searching for north. Then it stopped—rotated exactly 23 degrees from its original alignment.

She went back to the spinning tile. Now it was still. She traced her finger along its surface. There—a second arrow. Not carved by any human hand, but worn by centuries of moisture and pressure into a subtle grain. The arrow pointed toward the pantry.

"Have you tried cutting a new tile to fit?" she asked.

When she was called to the Villa Orchidea, the owner, Signor Rinaldi, pointed to a gap in the kitchen floor. "It's been like this for fifty years. Every tile we lay here… moves ."