I thought it was over.
I had written her story.
I had seen her.
I had spoken for her.
But silence never lasts long when it's borrowed.
Three nights after Chapter 12 went live, I was tagged in a post by someone I didn't know.
A teenager in Jakarta had gone missing.
Last seen staring into the glass panel of an abandoned vending machine.
No camera nearby.
Only a phone left behind.
Locked.
At 2:44 a.m.
The family said she had been obsessed with "the white woman in screens."
They thought it was a game.
Or an internet hoax.
But I knew.
I knew better.
---
I received another message.
This time not through email or social media.
It was a handwritten letter.
No return address.
No name.
Only this:
> "You opened the door with a story.
> Now it speaks through others.
> And some doors, once open, start asking for more."
Inside the envelope was a small piece of obsidian.
Cold.
Polished.
Reflective.
I didn't dare look into it directly.
---
I tried to ignore it again.
I focused on work.
Ignored the messages piling in.
Ignored the half-written stories from strangers who had started dreaming of her.
But something had changed.
Now she wasn't only appearing in reflections—
She was starting to appear in voices.
One audio file came from a woman in Dublin.
She had recorded her baby monitor during the night.
For thirty-six seconds, it picked up soft chanting.
Balinese.
Inside a modern apartment.
And a whisper that sounded almost amused:
> "He won't believe you. But the mirror will."
---
I visited a local Balinese priest who had moved to Singapore decades ago.
He didn't want to hear the full story.
He only asked one thing:
"Do you feel cold in your bones when she's near?"
I nodded.
He closed his eyes and said:
> "She's no longer trapped to place. She's bound to memory.
> And memory can travel anywhere words can reach."
Then he gave me a warning.
> "Tell her story with care.
> Or she'll start writing the ending herself."
---
That night, I opened my laptop.
I didn't plan to write.
But the document opened itself.
A blank page.
Then the words started appearing.
Not typed.
Etched.
Line by line.
> "You saw me.
> They did not believe you.
> So now, they must see through your eyes."
And then the cursor blinked.
Waiting.
---
So here I am.
Typing again.
Because this isn't just a story anymore.
It's an invitation.
Not to fear her.
But to understand her.
To remember the ones we tried to forget.
To see the truths reflected in silence, screens, and shadows.
---
If your mirror lingers on your image too long…
If your voice echoes back differently…
If your screen turns black at 2:44 a.m.—
Don't panic.
Just listen.
And if you must speak—
Speak her name with care.
Because every word is a mirror.
And some mirrors now listen back.
---
**Follow for Chapter 14. If you've dreamed of her… you'r
e already part of the story.**