Chapter 1

I never believed in urban legends until the Trait Swapper got me. One rainy evening in my quiet suburban home, I stumbled upon an antique mirror in the attic-rumored to be the device that swaps traits between realities. Curiosity got the better of me. I stared into it, whispering a joke about wanting a "fresh start." A flash of light, a dizzying whirl, and suddenly, everything felt... off.

I was still me, a 40-year-old man named Alex, with my broad shoulders, stubbled jaw, and deep voice. But my clothes? They had transformed entirely. I stood there in a dress with a knee-length hemline, slightly below-the-knee actually, featuring a fitted bodice that hugged my torso uncomfortably and a gently flared skirt that swished with every step. Delicate embroidery added a touch of grace, patterns of vines and flowers winding across the fabric. It had short puffed sleeves edged with lace trim, and a modest neckline adorned with a floral appliqué that bloomed right at my chest. Accessories completed the absurdity: a small decorative hat perched on my head, tied with a ribbon; polished pastel-colored Mary Jane shoes that clicked on the floor; white ankle socks with lace trim peeking out; a small cross pendant dangling from my neck; and dainty bracelets jingling on my wrists.

Panicking, I rushed to my closet. Every shirt, pant, and suit was gone, replaced by rows of similar outfits-frilly blouses, pleated skirts, petticoats, and more dresses in soft pastels. It was like my wardrobe had been curated for a Victorian tea party. No jeans, no ties, nothing remotely masculine. I felt exposed, ridiculous, but when I glanced in the mirror, a strange calm washed over me. The Trait Swapper hadn't just changed my clothes; it had altered something deeper.

Determined to fix this, I headed to the local department store. Heads turned as I walked in, but not in shock-people smiled politely, as if seeing a middle-aged man in a flared dress was the most normal thing. "Lovely outfit," a saleswoman said casually. "Need help finding matching accessories?" No gasps, no stares of judgment. After the swap, no one besides me thought what I was wearing was strange. Reality had bent around me.

I marched to the men's section, intent on buying jeans, a hoodie-something appropriate for my body. But as I browsed, my eyes glazed over the racks of suits and slacks. They looked wrong, unappealing. Instead, I drifted toward the women's aisles, drawn like a magnet. The only garments that caught my eye were extremely feminine: lace-trimmed blouses, ruffled skirts, silk stockings. I couldn't help it; a compulsion gripped me. My hands reached for several packages of opaque tights in white and pastel hues-soft pinks, lavenders, creams. They felt right, essential. I bought them without a second thought, along with a few more dresses similar to the one I wore.

Back home, I slipped on the tights, the fabric smooth against my legs. The mirror showed the same man, but now fully embraced in this new style. Friends called, inviting me out; they complimented my "elegant look" without batting an eye. Work emails arrived, business as usual. The Trait Swapper had swapped more than traits-it had rewritten normalcy. Part of me resisted, yearning for my old jeans, but another part whispered acceptance. In this twisted reality, I was still Alex, but forever in lace and grace. What other swaps awaited? I shuddered, yet curiously glanced back at the mirror.

Chapter 2

The unease gnawed at me like a persistent itch. That antique mirror in the attic-the Trait Swapper, as I'd come to call it-hadn't just altered my wardrobe; it had rewritten the rules of my world. I couldn't shake the compulsion to wear these frilly outfits, and the tights I'd bought clung to my legs like a second skin. Desperate for answers, or at least some acknowledgment that this was insane, I decided to report it. Maybe the police could investigate the mirror as some kind of cursed artifact.

I drove to the local precinct, the flared skirt of my dress brushing against the steering wheel. Parking, I caught my reflection in the rearview: broad-shouldered Alex in a hat with ribbons, Mary Janes gleaming. My heart pounded as I entered the station. Heads turned, but with nods of routine politeness, not alarm. "Can I help you, sir?" a desk sergeant asked, his eyes flicking over my embroidered bodice without a hint of surprise.

I requested to file a report. They led me to a small interview room, where Officer Ramirez, a burly man with a mustache, sat across from me. I spilled everything in detail: finding the mirror, the flash of light, waking up in this dress with its puffed sleeves and lace trim, the transformed closet, the inexplicable pull toward feminine clothes at the store. I described buying the opaque tights-white, pastel pinks, lavenders-as if hypnotized. "It's like reality shifted," I pleaded. "No one sees how wrong this is except me."

Ramirez nodded sympathetically, jotting notes. He took my ID, contact info, and the mirror's description. "We'll look into it," he said calmly. Then he excused himself, leaving me alone with my swirling thoughts.

Minutes later, the door opened, and a policewoman entered-Officer Hayes, her badge read. She had a kind face, short-cropped hair. "Thought you might be hungry," she said, placing a sandwich, bag of chips, and a can of Coke on the table. I thanked her, nibbling absentmindedly. She chatted lightly about the weather, avoiding my outfit entirely. I could tell she sensed it upset me-my fidgeting with the floral appliqué gave it away-but to her, it was as normal as a tie on a businessman. "These things can be stressful," she offered gently. "Take your time."

Not long after, a familiar voice echoed in the hall. My mother burst in, her face etched with concern. "Alex! Oh, honey, what happened?" She hugged me tightly, her perfume the same as always. The officers had called her as my emergency contact. She signed some papers, and we left together, her arm linked in mine.

She drove me to my childhood home, a cozy ranch-style house in the suburbs. Stepping inside felt like time travel-the worn sofa, the kitchen table with its familiar scratches, the family photos on the walls. But as I wandered, dread crept in. I opened my old bedroom closet: rows of dresses with fitted bodices, flared skirts, embroidered details. Drawers held lace-trimmed socks, dainty bracelets, small cross pendants. No boyhood jeans or t-shirts.

Worse were the pictures. In every frame-me at prom, graduation, family vacations-I wore similar apparel: knee-length hems, puffed sleeves, Mary Janes. Mom smiled at one. "You always had such elegant taste, even as a kid." To her, this was my history, unaltered. The Trait Swapper hadn't just changed the present; it had retrofitted my past. I sank onto the bed, the skirt pooling around me. Was there no escape? Or was this the new me, forever?

Chapter 3

Back in my childhood home, the familiar creaks of the wooden floors did little to soothe my fraying nerves. The dress I wore-the one with the fitted bodice, flared skirt, and lace-trimmed sleeves-felt like a cage, even as the opaque tights I'd bought earlier hugged my legs comfortably. I paced the living room, the Mary Jane shoes clicking softly. "Mom, I appreciate you picking me up, but I need to go back to my place. This... this isn't right. I have to figure out how to reverse it."

My mother, with her silver-streaked hair and warm eyes, shook her head firmly. "Nonsense, Alex. You're staying here tonight. You look shaken up from whatever happened at that police station. A good night's sleep in your old bed will do wonders." She busied herself in the kitchen, brewing tea, as if this were just another family visit.

I followed her, tugging at the floral appliqué on my neckline. "Mom, listen. Something happened with that antique mirror-the Trait Swapper. It changed everything. This outfit? It's wrong for me. I'm a 40-year-old man; I shouldn't be in dresses and tights. My whole wardrobe transformed, and now I can't even buy normal clothes without feeling compelled to get more like this."

She set down the teapot and turned to me, her expression a mix of concern and amusement. "Wrong? Honey, it looks great on you. That embroidery suits your frame perfectly." She reached out, adjusting the small decorative hat on my head. "You've been wearing this type of apparel for as long as I can remember. Even as a little boy, you'd insist on those puffed sleeves and lace trims. Remember how you'd pout if I tried to get you jeans or t-shirts? 'Too scratchy, too plain,' you'd say. We'd spend hours picking out the prettiest dresses and accessories together."

Her words hit like a punch. The retrofitted memories flooded in-flashes of me as a child, twirling in flared skirts, beaming at the mirror. But I knew they were false, implanted by the swap. "That's not real, Mom. It's the mirror-it altered reality."

She waved it off gently. "Come on, let's go to your room. Maybe sorting through your things will help clear your head." She led me upstairs to my old bedroom, the walls still adorned with posters from my youth, now oddly complemented by jewelry boxes and hat stands. She opened the closet, revealing racks of similar outfits: knee-length dresses in pastels, blouses with modest necklines, outerwear like embroidered cardigans and shawls.

"I'll throw out anything you don't like anymore," she said, pulling out drawers filled with underwear-delicate lace panties and camisoles-jewelry like dainty bracelets and cross pendants, accessories including ribbons, socks, and more tights.

At first, I gestured wildly. "Everything! Get rid of it all!" But as we sifted through, item by item, a strange reluctance gripped me. The outerwear felt essential; how could I part with that soft wool coat with its floral buttons? The underwear was comfortable, familiar in a way that twisted my gut. Jewelry sparkled invitingly-the bracelets I'd "always" worn. Accessories completed every look; without them, I'd feel incomplete.