A Shadow in Reflection

Kaelen lay motionless, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, as if it were mocking him—grinning down, whispering the memories he had long buried.

The dream still clung to him, a lingering weight in his chest, like unseen fingers pressing into his ribs, refusing to let go.

He exhaled sharply and pressed his palm against his eyes.

Reality. He needed to return to reality.

Yes. His mother had been dead for a long time. That much was certain. He didn't want to remember more. He didn't want to see more.

An accident with no clear explanation—a mystery that left no trails to follow. A car that shouldn't have been there. A collision on a dark, rain-drenched road. A phone call that came too late and sounded far too deliberate.

And his father…

Kaelen barely remembered him. Only pieces of a story his mother had told him, scattered images of a man in uniform, leaving and never returning. A name etched into stone in a town where no one spoke it anymore—where no one even saw it anymore.

He had always been alone. Unsure when exactly he had stopped hearing his mother's voice, when her stories had faded into mere echoes, when the warmth of her presence had become nothing more than a frame in a forgotten picture.

But in that void, in the silence that loss had carved into him, he had found something.

Words. Stories.

Writing had become his refuge, his sanctuary. A place where reality could be rewritten, where the dead could speak again, where the past could make sense, and where any world—any world—could be made real.

Kaelen inhaled deeply, forcing himself up. He didn't have time to lose himself in thought.

Time waits for no one.

He dressed quickly, grabbed his bag, and stepped out of his apartment.

The building exhaled cold and emptiness, its walls scrawled with the touch of time, its air thick with abandonment. The hallway light flickered, pulsing like a heartbeat on the verge of failing.

Yet, this was home. The only home he had.

He reached the elevator and pressed the button. The doors, rusted at the edges, creaked open with reluctance.

Kaelen stepped inside and hit the button for the ground floor.

The descent began.

Somewhere around the seventh floor, his gaze drifted toward the mirror on the back wall.

And he froze.

A shadow.

Standing right behind him.

Vaguely outlined, blurred at the edges, lacking any distinct features—yet unmistakably there.

Kaelen's breath hitched.

Had it always been there? Had he simply not noticed?

He blinked.

The shadow smiled.

The elevator continued its slow descent.

The reflection didn't move.

But the smile…

It widened.

A chill slithered down Kaelen's spine.

He tore his gaze away, fixing his stare on the buttons.

Third floor.

At the very edge of his vision, something shifted.

The shadow was closer.

Right behind him.

Right at his shoulder.

The elevator jolted slightly as it reached the ground floor. The doors opened.

Kaelen stepped out quickly, refusing to look back.

The outside air wrapped around him, heavy with the scent of wet asphalt. The city breathed around him—people moving, speaking, existing—yet they felt hollow, mechanical, detached from reality.

Without realizing, his steps led him toward the subway station.

A voice cut through the air.

— Kaelen!

He turned.

Eliot.

His coworker, a tall guy with perpetually messy hair and round glasses that made him look half-asleep.

— Rough night? Eliot said, raising an eyebrow. You look like you've seen a ghost.

Kaelen hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to tell Eliot about the shadow in the elevator. He'd sound insane.

— Didn't sleep well. Stayed up late, he muttered.

— That's new. Eliot smirked. Do you ever sleep well?

Kaelen forced a weak smile, but inside, something coiled tight. The unease hadn't left him.

The subway screeched to a halt—a steel serpent swallowing people without question.

They stepped inside.

— Oh, right, Eliot said, glancing at his phone. Boss wants to talk to you today.

Kaelen barely reacted.

— About what?

— No clue. But he seemed serious.

Kaelen already had an idea.

At the company, he had a reputation—both for writing brilliantly and for losing himself too deeply in his work.

When they reached the office, he barely noticed the building—glass, sleek, modern, far too pristine. A stark contrast to the park beside it, brimming with life, the trees swaying with the same ease as the ones from his childhood.

He climbed the stairs quickly, shaking off the thoughts still clinging to his mind.

On the seventh floor, his boss, Mr. Vance, was already waiting.

— Kaelen, please, come in.

The door closed behind him.

Vance sat behind his desk, hands clasped, his sharp gaze dissecting Kaelen like a specimen under glass. Past fifty, always dressed like a professor—three-piece suit, bowtie, perpetually unreadable expression.

— We have an assignment for you, he said, voice measured. A story. Something… special.

Kaelen crossed his arms.

— What kind of story?

Vance slid a folder across the desk.

— A village. Few kilometers from here. An old cabin. People say it's haunted.

Kaelen raised an eyebrow.

— Haunted?

Vance shrugged.

— You don't have to believe it. Just write about what you find.

His tone was dismissive, but there was something else in his eyes. Something unreadable.

— Some strange disappearances. Not enough to make headlines, but enough for rumors. He leaned back. You leave in three days.

Kaelen hesitated.

The shadow in the elevator flashed in his mind—its smile, its presence, its closeness.

Coincidence. It had to be.

Vance sighed.

— We'll pay you well. Think of it as a break from monotony.

Kaelen's fingers brushed against the folder. The paper felt heavier than it should.

Three days.

And then, he would go.

But what he didn't know was that, in that very moment…

His journey had already begun.