Monday morning fell on the busy town of Rushmore.
The bullet train, as usual, was crowded. It breathed with quiet fatigue.
Office workers had grown accustomed to swaying with every bend in the track. Bags bumped into backs.
Mobile phone screens glowed in sleepy hands.
But one seat seemed politely —
Spare.
Not occupied.
Spare.
Not noticed.
Spare.
Day. After. Day.
Commuters looked at it, then away.
No one hurried to fill it.
I didn’t.
And the seat remained —
Unfilled.
Every morning.
Someone would approach it enthusiastically.
Or cautiously.
Then hesitate.
A fatigued office worker would approach it —
Sit.
Then stand again.
A student would shift towards it and end up squeezing beside strangers.
The behaviour repeated with curious precision.
No one said a word.
No one gestured.
The avoidance was natural —
Rehearsed.
The silence, practised.
As though there was an unwritten rule that everyone understood.
But me.
Commuters filled the train after an exhausting day.
A tough day at work. I was dog-tired.
The seats wouldn’t have me —
They were all —
Occupied.
All except — -
The Vacant One.
My legs couldn’t sync with my unanswered question.
I sat. The cushion surrendered without complaint.
Relief outweighed curiosity.
For that moment.
Nothing happened.
The seat provided much-needed comfort.
I grinned at my own ridiculousness.
Then my eyes fell on the passengers.
No one looked at me.
They gazed —
Beyond my shoulder.
The train reached the next station.
Everyone stepped over the platform gap.
Hurriedly.
But quietly.
No one dared look at me.
The doors shut, and there was nothing but —
Silence.
The carriage seemed much larger than before.
The spare cushion —
Sank.
Its fabric dipped by the tiniest fraction.
And then —
A voice. It pressed my ears, very gently.
But purposefully.
I breathed in.
Something followed.
The train went on.
Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt.
