The first sighting was almost dismissed as imagination. A fogged mirror, wiped clean, revealed not just a lone reflection—but another shape standing in the background. Tall. Thin. Featureless. By the time the head turned, the figure was gone.
It began to appear more often. In the polished glass of an office door. In the surface of still water after rain. In the shine of a kettle. Always in reflections—never in the real world. A shadow of a body that didn't exist, watching with a stillness more suffocating than movement.
Each time it was seen, it stood closer. At first, at a distance. Later, just behind the shoulder of the reflection. Never blinking, never shifting except for the faint delay in movement—as if the reflection itself struggled to mimic the observer.
Windows were covered. Mirrors draped with sheets. Shiny metal objects turned face down. But reflections are difficult to escape. The smallest surface—a phone screen, a darkened window, a puddle—was enough to bring it back. And once seen, it could not be unseen.
Sleep brought no relief. Dreams were filled with the sound of tapping fingers on glass. A hand pressing against the mirror from the other side, thin and skeletal, leaving behind smears as it dragged downward. In those dreams, the reflection smiled while the dreamer remained still.
One night, the tapping followed into waking. The sheet meant to cover the mirror had fallen to the floor. In the glass, the shadow stood directly behind the reflection, hand raised, fingertips brushing against the surface.
When its hand finally touched the reflected shoulder, there was no scream, no sound of shattering. Only silence, and an empty room. The reflection remained for a few seconds longer, before fading into nothing at all.