Aaron stared at the mirror in Dr. Higherland's dimly lit office, his hands trembling as they traced the unfamiliar curves of his new body. The reflection showed a woman-or something close to it-with large breasts straining against the fabric of a three-quarter length green floral printed dress, rounded hips that swayed unnaturally when he moved, and medium-length wavy brown hair cascading in a somewhat feminine style. But beneath the light green hose and the dark green cardigan, in the privacy of his underwear, everything was still... him. Male where it counted. And worst of all, his skin sagged with wrinkles, his once-youthful features now etched with the lines of someone over sixty, though his face hadn't altered much beyond the smooth, shave-free cheeks.

"You mean I have to stay like this?" Aaron asked for what felt like the tenth time, his voice cracking in a pitch that was still his own, unchanged and mocking.

Dr. Higherland, a wiry man with a beard that screamed "eccentric wizard" more than "licensed physician," leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers. "I'm afraid so, Aaron. The spell was meant to rewrite reality seamlessly-turn you into the woman you've always dreamed of, with the world none the wiser. Everyone would remember you as her from the start. But magic... it's finicky. A glitch in the ether, perhaps. Now, as far as your family, friends, and acquaintances are concerned, this is you. Always has been. They believe you suffered from a rare hormonal disease years ago-one that feminized your body overnight, gave you those curves, those breasts, those hips. And the aging? Part of the package, they think. A tragic side effect that made you look decades older in a blink."

Aaron's mind reeled. He fumbled for his wallet, flipping it open with shaking fingers. His name: still Aaron. Date of birth: unchanged. Gender marker: male, stubbornly so. Address: the same cramped apartment he'd called home for years. But the photo on his driver's license? It stared back at him with weary, wrinkled eyes-the new him, dressed in that same floral dress, looking like a grandmother who'd wandered into the wrong body.

"You mean... no one will question this?" Aaron whispered, slumping into the chair opposite the doctor.

"Not a soul," Dr. Higherland replied gravely. "The magic anchored that much, at least. Reality's been tweaked. Your coworkers will nod sympathetically about your 'condition.' Your family will have old photos-altered ones-showing you like this at holidays, graduations. But listen carefully: do not attempt conventional surgery to 'fix' any of this. No facelifts, no... adjustments down there. The spell's residue clings to you. Tamper with it through mundane means, and the results could be catastrophic. You might end up with tentacles, or worse-erased entirely from existence."

Aaron buried his face in his hands, feeling the soft, aged skin give under his touch. What had he done? A desperate wish for change, whispered in the dead of night, leading him to this charlatan's door. Now he was a freakish hybrid, trapped in a body that screamed contradiction. He glanced up at the doctor, eyes pleading. "Is there any way to reverse it?"

Dr. Higherland shook his head slowly. "Magic doesn't come with an undo button, my friend. But who knows? Live with it long enough, and maybe you'll find it's not so bad. The world sees a survivor now-a woman who's beaten the odds. Or at least, that's the story they've all bought."

As Aaron stood to leave, the dress swishing around his legs like a cruel joke, he wondered if he could buy it too. Or if this half-transformation would unravel him thread by thread, until nothing of the old Aaron remained.

---

Aaron stumbled out of Dr. Higherland's office, the weight of his new reality pressing down like an ill-fitting cardigan. The floral dress swished around his legs with every step, a constant reminder of the botched transformation. He couldn't face going home just yet-not until he tested the waters of this twisted world. So, he headed to the nearest mall, a sprawling temple of consumerism where anonymity might shield him from judgment.

The crowds parted around him as he wandered the polished floors, his wavy brown hair bouncing slightly with each hesitant stride. He looked mostly like a woman, albeit a very plain one-over sixty, curvy but unremarkable, blending into the sea of shoppers like a faded mannequin. No stares, no whispers; just the occasional glance that screamed indifference. It was almost comforting, this invisibility.