Imagine walking through a world where every sound, smell, and touch is more than just a sensation — it's a clue, a story waiting to be uncovered. I see the past etched into objects, hear secrets whispered through the walls, and feel the heartbeat of a place like it's my own. Most people can't imagine living like this. But for me, it's all I've ever known.

Some people think my synesthesia is a curse, that it makes life too complicated. And maybe they're right. Sometimes it feels like I'm drowning in a sea of colors and sounds, unable to find my footing. But other times, it feels like I'm holding a secret map to the world — one that reveals paths no one else can see.

When I was six or so, it became very clear I wasn't like everyone else. Not just because everything had extra colors to me, but because the colors had meaning. They told me the feelings of people and animals, told me the history of objects. My parents, who admittedly struggled to understand me and the quiet I needed at times, wanted to make sure I was alright. So, they agreed to State-Mandated testing — mandatory where I grew up in Pennsylvania, anyway — for children who displayed 'Special' qualities.

I didn't like those tests: all the machines, the endless questions, the probing stares of the technicians trying to determine if I was a ‘Special’ with powers that could one day be an asset to the United States. I remember the day the test results came back. I was in a sterile, white room, sitting beside my parents, my feet dangling from a too-tall chair. The walls were bare except for a single motivational poster that seemed out of place, the kind that said 'Believe in Yourself' in big bold letters. The doctor was a stern-looking woman with thin glasses perched on the edge of her nose, her lab coat crisp and her hair tied in a severe bun. She seemed tired, like she had delivered this kind of news a thousand times before.

She looked over her clipboard, her face clouded with disappointment as she spoke to my parents. 'Lisa has tested positive for being a natural-born Psion,' she said, the words clinical and detached. 'She scores very well for various sensitive psionic powers...' She trailed off, as if hesitant to continue.

My father, who always had a knack for sensing tension, raised an eyebrow and asked, 'I sense there is a but?'

The doctor sighed, adjusting her glasses. 'Yes, but she also has acute synesthesia — chromesthesia, to be more specific. We believe this difficulty will hamper her development and render her psionic powers nearly useless.'

I remember the way my mother’s face tightened, her eyes darting from the doctor to my father. She was a gentle woman, with kind blue eyes and a quiet strength, always trying to understand me, even when I knew I must have seemed so strange to her. But my father, with his broad shoulders and fiery gaze, didn’t take kindly to being told his little girl was ‘useless.’

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the linoleum floor. 'Useless?' he spat, his voice sharp with indignation. 'You think she's useless because she sees the world differently? Because she doesn’t fit into your neat little categories?' He pointed a finger at the doctor, his voice rising with every word. 'You don’t get to decide her worth. She’s already more than you could ever understand. Maybe her powers don’t fit your mold, but that doesn’t make them any less real, any less valuable.'

The doctor blinked, momentarily taken aback, her face tightening with a hint of frustration. But my father didn’t wait for a response. He took my hand, his grip firm and reassuring, and said, 'Come on, Lisa, we’re leaving. We don’t need them to tell us who you are.' My mother followed, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder, giving me a soft smile as if to say, 'We’ve got you.'

As we walked out of that sterile, suffocating room, I remember feeling a surge of something warm and bright in my chest. I knew my parents didn't fully understand what was going on inside my head, but they believed in me. And that was more than enough.

"My parents did their best to help me, turning to independent research and learning. We didn't have much — Dad was just a regular working stiff at a big steel mill, coming home every day with calloused hands and a tired smile. But he worked as hard as he could to make sure Mom and I were happy, and in my case, to understand my struggles in a world that had more sound and color than I could handle at times.

He’d spend his evenings reading up on synesthesia and psychic phenomena, poring over old books he found at second-hand stores or articles he printed out at the local library. I’d see him at the kitchen table, brow furrowed, a cup of coffee steaming beside him as he tried to make sense of it all. He never complained; he just wanted to help me find a way to live with the colors and sounds that overwhelmed me.

Mom did her part too. She’d sit with me during the worst of it, when the world felt too bright or too loud, her hand resting gently on my back. She’d hum softly, a lullaby she sang when I was a baby, and somehow, the colors would soften, the noise would quiet, and I’d find a little peace. They both gave me the space to be myself, even when being myself was a challenge none of us fully understood."

"I'm not an empath in the strictest sense. I can't feel others' emotions, but I can see them in their auras. And I’ve always seen love in my parents. It's one thing to feel love, and another to see the truth of it laid out in bright colors right in front of you. That’s one of the benefits of not being able to turn off my aura sight — I see everyone for who they really are. People can't hide how they feel from me, nor can they lie. Well, they can lie, but I always know."

At times, I can't help but thank my parents. They supported me and had faith in me, even when I wasn't sure I had faith in myself. Sometimes it scares me to think how I would have ended up if they hadn't been there to help me learn to cope with my chromesthesia and how my psionic powers — for lack of a better word — have merged with it.

See, unlike most psychics whose powers have an off switch, mine don't. I can't not see everything's colors, can't stop seeing the truth stripped down and laid out before my eyes. That's why, when I decided to become a psychic detective, I registered with the government under the code name Delphi, after the Greek place of the oracles.

Thanks to my loving family, I beat the expectations of the doctors who saw me as a lost cause. I learned how to turn my struggles into strengths. I got a degree in criminology and passed all the detective courses with outstanding performance. So when I got that little office and saw them put up the words 'Detective Delphi, Psychic Private Eye' on the frosted glass, it was one of the happiest days of my life.

I still remember stepping back, looking at those words glinting in the sunlight, feeling a surge of pride and purpose. This was my path — a way to use my unique vision to help others, to see through the lies and deceit that most people couldn’t. I knew it wouldn't be easy. Not everyone believes in psychics, and even fewer believe in one who can't turn off what they see. But I was ready to prove myself, one case at a time.

My first case came quicker than I expected. A worried mother, clutching a faded photograph of her missing son. The police had given up, written him off as just another runaway. But she was desperate, and I could see the hope in her aura, flickering like a faint blue flame, refusing to die out. I knew I had to help her.

As she spoke, the colors around her shifted and swirled, telling me more than her words ever could. I saw hints of fear and grief but also a stubborn determination. I took the case, knowing I’d have to rely on more than just my abilities. I’d need to dig through records, interview witnesses, follow every lead, no matter how cold. But I had an edge — I could see what others couldn’t.

Every clue I found had a color, a feeling. The missing boy’s room, when I visited, had a heavy, muddy aura, something dark and unresolved. I sensed secrets hidden in the walls, felt echoes of arguments, saw flashes of a figure slipping out of a window at night. The colors painted a story, one I had to unravel.

It was in moments like these that I realized just how powerful my so-called 'disability' truly was. I could step into a room and see its history unfold like a vivid painting, each stroke of color revealing another piece of the puzzle. Every object had a resonance, a psychic imprint, and I had trained myself to read them like a book.

I knew that not every case would have a happy ending. But I also knew that as long as I could see the colors, I would keep searching, keep finding the truth in a world that tried so hard to hide it."

"That first case won me a headline. Turns out her son had been taken by a kidnapping ring that had been operating in the city for years, and little old me was the private detective who brought it all crashing down. Not too bad for a girl they said would be useless, huh?"

The story was everywhere — ‘Psychic Detective Cracks Cold Case,’ ‘Delphi Dismantles City’s Darkest Secret.’ I became something of a sensation overnight. People didn’t know what to make of me — some thought I was a fraud, others believed I was the real deal, and a few just wanted to see the circus act for themselves. But it didn’t matter. I knew what I had done, and I knew it was only the beginning.

I’d uncovered secrets, seen the hidden colors of a criminal web that stretched further than anyone had imagined. And for once, I didn’t feel like the odd one out, like the girl who saw too much or knew too little. I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be, doing what I was meant to do.

More cases started coming in, and with each one, I felt more confident, more capable. I wasn’t just seeing the colors anymore; I was learning to understand them, to trust them, to use them to peel back the layers that hid the truth. Every case was a new puzzle, a new chance to prove to the world — and maybe to myself — that I was more than they’d ever expected.

But with every headline, with every solved mystery, I knew I was also attracting attention. Not just from the people who needed my help but from those who wanted to stay in the shadows, who thrived on secrets and lies. The colors started to darken, the whispers grew louder, and I began to sense that I was stepping into something much bigger than I had ever imagined.

I've still got my struggles, but so do a lot of other people — people who have seen the world give up on them, refuse to understand them just like it did me. That's why I won't give up on them, because someone I love didn't give up on me."

I pick up a photo on my desk, a small, slightly grainy print taken the day I cracked that big case. I’m standing outside my little office, wearing a simple blazer over a fitted shirt, my dark hair pulled back into a messy bun. There’s a hint of a smile on my lips, but my eyes — they’re sharp, focused, with just a touch of defiance. A part of me likes to think they’re the eyes of someone who’s seen more than her fair share of the world’s shadows but still has plenty of light left to give.

My skin has a natural olive tone, a gift from my mother’s side of the family, and I’ve got a few freckles across my nose and cheeks that always seemed to show up more in the summer. The photo caught me mid-laugh, a rare, candid moment where I didn’t see the flash coming. There’s something in the way I’m standing — confident, maybe even a little stubborn. I look like someone who knows a bit too much and isn’t afraid to admit it.

I've got another case coming up, one that makes me feel like I've stepped into an old noir movie. My secretary, Mrs. Holland, a sweet woman with a penchant for knitting and sharp as a tack, sends a guy in. He's cute, and his aura is a real pretty shade of colors — soft blues and greens, with flickers of gold around the edges. But beneath the colors, I can see the way they tremble, the way they pulse with something darker. He's distraught and scared.

His name is Josh, and he tells me a story that breaks my heart. Says his ex-girlfriend is trying to ruin his life, that she's been gaslighting him, playing mind games, and doing everything she can to make him feel like he's losing it. It’s a real classic case of an abusive narcissist, and I can tell he’s telling the truth just from the way his aura ripples with pain and confusion.

He’s a strong guy with a good heart, I can see that, but he’s been broken and bruised in ways that aren’t easy to fix. It’s not easy for guys to admit to that kind of stuff, let alone be taken seriously. The cops say there's no real evidence, that it’s just a messy breakup, and they won’t take him seriously. I can see the frustration and fear etched into his features, the way his hands tremble slightly as he talks. He’s on the edge of something — desperation, maybe.

I feel for him. I know what it’s like to be dismissed, to have your truth questioned, to feel like you’re screaming into a void that just won’t listen. But I’m listening. And I can see the colors in his aura that tell me everything I need to know. He’s been hurt, and he needs someone to believe him

The worst part is, he thinks she’s trying to kill him. Says he’s been having nightmares about her — dreams that feel too real, like she’s there, right beside him, whispering in his ear. Dreams where she tells him he’ll regret dumping her. And yeah, once more, I can tell he’s telling the truth. I see it in his aura — black lines threading through the colors, dark and jagged, like cracks in glass. It’s proof that his ex isn’t just a horrible person, but someone who’s invaded his mind by force. A telepath of some kind, maybe. My heart breaks a little more as I piece it together.

Josh’s aura reminds me of a golden retriever we adopted from a shelter when I was a kid — good-hearted and kind but carrying the scars of abuse he never asked for. He’s got that same look in his eyes, a mix of hope and hurt, like he’s not sure whether to trust me but is desperate enough to try.

I take a deep breath and lean forward, trying to keep my voice steady. 'Okay, Josh,' I say softly, 'Tell me everything. Start from the beginning. I’ll do my best to help you.' He nods, looking relieved, like just saying it out loud is a weight off his shoulders. And as he starts to talk, I see the colors in his aura shift slightly, just enough to let me know he’s starting to believe there might be a way out of this after all.

Because that's what I do. When the chips are down, when it feels like the world has given up on you, and you need a miracle, call Detective Delphi — Oracle for Hire.