Barnaby Whiskers knelt beside the cypress root and pulled his sketch pad from his coat. The hex mark was already fading. In ten minutes, maybe less, it would vanish completely. He drew fast, his pencil catching every curve and angle of the pattern that matched his eleven-year-old case notes. But the light was wrong. The swamp shadows made the inner loops blur. Barnaby reached for the emerald plant growing beside the root and snapped off three broad leaves. He laid them flat over the hex mark like a natural filter, bright green glowing against the dark wood. The pattern jumped into focus. He sketched the final spiral, then tucked the leaves into his coat pocket beside the faded case paper. Tonight he'd render this properly in ink, with clean lines that could be turned into textile patterns. A detective's coat should carry the truth it helps uncover.