Episode 2 – The Reflection That Follows
The train didn't slow again until we reached the next station.
By then, I'd convinced myself it was a trick of the glass, a war-born hallucination, or maybe just exhaustion clawing at my head. That's the kind of lie you tell yourself when the alternative is impossible.
But impossible things have a way of breathing down your neck.
The station was nearly empty. A few commuters shuffled past me, collars turned up against the wind. The cold air outside should have felt clean after the metallic staleness of the carriage.
It didn't.
It felt watched.
I scanned the platform. No pine forest here, just sodium lamps buzzing overhead, casting that sickly yellow light that makes every shadow too dark.
Then I saw the window.
On the far side of the platform, a darkened vending machine stood under a cracked shelter. Its glass panel reflected me faintly… except my reflection wasn't facing the same way.
It was turned toward me.
The eyes in the reflection weren't mine. They were wide, hungry, and still carrying that grin from the train. My pulse hammered.
I stepped closer.
The reflection's head twitched—sharp, like a predator catching a scent. I froze. The vending machine flickered to life suddenly, whirring and clicking. The reflection moved in perfect time with the flicker, like it was stitched to the light.
A gust of wind pushed across the platform. I blinked—
It was gone.
Only my real face stared back now.
The train hissed behind me, doors closing. I didn't look back. I boarded the next carriage without thinking, not even checking its destination.
Inside, the seats were empty except for one man at the far end, sitting with his back to me. His shoulders rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths.
I walked halfway down the aisle before I realized…
The reflection in the window beside him wasn't sitting.
It was standing.
And it was grinning at me.