Graham had a single source of pride —
Productivity.
While others slept, he created. His YouTube Studio playlist was probably longer than that of YouTube Vlogger Mark Weins’.
Productivity was a bedtime novel.
He often scrolled till dawn broke, standing firmly by the maxim that sleep was for losers.
Then, on a fine morning at 3:15 a m. —
A gentle, courteous knock.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The taps clicked like punctured malice.
Politeness was never so unsettling.
A sharply dressed Repo Man.
He knew this day would come.
“Good afternoon, Sir. I represent The Union Bank’s Department of Restitution. You’ve probably been expecting us.” The smile on his face was almost a sneer. “And according to what we have on record, you’ve accumulated substantial debt.”
Graham laughed.
He blatantly ignored the banker’s attempts to administer the necessary documents for the repossession of his home.
Then, he lost the ability to yawn.
The next morning, the coffee’s ability to rejuvenate him was —
Useless.
Soon, every sleepless night increased the Repo Man’s presence.
He arrived courteously. More punctually than the city bus.
And he claimed something —
Strange —
With each visit.
Then Graham’s dreams vanished.
Music no longer motivated him.
His sense of humour was repossessed pending —
Payment.
One receipt at a time.
Peaceful afternoons vanished.
Graham gulped cup after cup of coffee. His energy depleted with
each cup.
The more he drank, the more of himself he lost.
In exhaustion, he signed contracts his mind never read.
The collector arrived for his final visit.
He closed the ledger.
“We will collect your tomorrow…
Tonight.”
And for the first time, Graham declined the late-night demand.
He ignored the knock.
The collector never returned.
But his yawn did.
Then, he laughed again.
Sleep finally returned — in peaceful starts.
Rest started to accumulate interest.
Graham still focused on production.
But he no longer paid for it with Himself.
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.
