The piercing sound of a car horn shattered the silent night. Tran Duy An jolted awake, his head throbbing as if it would split open. The pale yellow light of a streetlamp filtered through the shattered windshield of his motorbike, painting distorted streaks of light on his pale face. The pungent smell of gasoline mingled with the metallic scent of blood, causing his stomach to churn.
"Am I... still alive?"
Attempting to sit up, a sharp pain shot down his spine, causing Duy An to groan softly. Memories of the previous night's accident remained hazy, like a fast-forwarded film: the blinding glare of headlights, the ear-splitting screech of brakes, and then a powerful shove that sent him flying off the road. But... where did that push come from? He clearly remembered the road being deserted, without another soul or vehicle in sight.
After several days in the hospital undergoing various tests and receiving reassuring words from doctors, Duy An was finally discharged. The wounds on his body still ached dully, but what troubled him most were the strange images that had begun to appear around him.
At first, they were just fleeting glimpses: a blurry figure in the elevator mirror, a sorrowful face shimmering on the surface of a puddle. He told himself it was just psychological residue from the accident. But then, the frequency and clarity of these "illusions" increased.
One morning on the crowded bus to university, Duy An inadvertently looked at the fogged-up windowpane. Instead of his own reflection, he saw a middle-aged man with bloodshot eyes and a face etched with desperation. The man was whispering something, the distorted sounds utterly incomprehensible. Duy An rubbed his eyes, trying to look again, but the window only reflected the huddled forms of the other passengers.
A shiver ran down his spine. What the hell was going on?
In the days that followed, Duy An started noticing bizarre "mirror stains" everywhere: on the glass facades of tall buildings, on the screen of his turned-off phone, even on the glasses of a pedestrian hurrying past. Each "mirror stain" seemed to carry a different emotion, a different memory. There were images of suffering, tear-streaked faces, and cold, resentful gazes.
In the dormitory bathroom, while washing his face, Duy An looked into the old, cracked mirror on the wall. This time, it wasn't just a fleeting glimpse. He clearly saw a young woman with long, jet-black hair standing behind him, her eyes fixed on him with utter hatred.
"You... you killed me..." a shrill voice echoed in Duy An's mind, not as an actual sound, but like a reverberation from the depths of his consciousness.
Duy An cried out, stumbling backward against the wall. When he opened his eyes again, the mirror only reflected the image of a pale, exhausted college student. But the terror remained, etched into his mind.
That night, Duy An barely slept. He tossed and turned, haunted by the ghostly images that flashed behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes. "Mirror stains"... the lingering traces of the souls of the dead. Why could he see them? And that hateful voice... what did it mean?
The next morning, while waiting for the bus at the station, Duy An instinctively looked at the windshield of a car that had just pulled up. This time, it wasn't just a fleeting image. He clearly saw a "mirror shade" of himself standing behind the reflection, but... the eyes of that "mirror shade" were pitch black and chillingly cold.
A hoarse voice spoke near his ear, not from the "mirror shade," but from a woman standing nearby:
"Don't look into the mirrors for too long. The things inside... they know your name."
Duy An startled and turned around. It was a middle-aged woman with a few wrinkles on her face, sharp eyes, and a slightly weathered appearance. She looked at him with a wary gaze, then quickly boarded the bus that had just arrived.
"The things inside... they know your name..."
Those words echoed in Duy An's head, planting a vague unease in his heart, but also igniting an irresistible curiosity. Perhaps, these "mirror stains" weren't just illusions. Perhaps, there was another world hidden behind the familiar reflective surfaces, and he had just inadvertently opened the door to it.