That night, Shreya returned home in a daze. Every reflection, every window, every shadow was distorted, as if the world itself were bent by some unseen hand.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
"You saw me yesterday. Now you will see the truth."
Before she could respond, a knock at the door startled her. She opened it, but no one was there—only a package. Inside: a small, black mirror and a note:
"He is not gone. He is waiting."
Shreya looked into the mirror. And for the first time, she heard a voice—a whisper that wasn't in her mind but in the room itself.
"Shreya… help me…"
It was the man from the bridge. His face pale, eyes hollow. But he moved unnaturally, twitching, jerking like a puppet.
"Who… what are you?" Shreya whispered.
"I… died… yesterday… yet I exist. You touched me. Now you can see what I see. What the world cannot hold."
The mirror rippled, showing a vision: shadows devouring people, timelines breaking, chaos in the streets.
"You cannot change it without consequences," the dead man said. His voice trembled. "Every attempt… twists reality further. And it is hungry. Always hungry."
Shreya realized then that she had become part of a game she didn't understand—between life and death, past and future, sanity and terror.
A gust of wind slammed the door shut behind her. The mirror fogged. When she looked again, he was gone.
But his whisper lingered:
"Tomorrow is not safe… and it knows your name."