“Hello?” Trevor’s impatient baritone barked across the line. It was Tuesday, and the usual paperwork routines had to be observed before meetings.

The caller on the other end fell silent in sad apology. “Sorry, sir. This wasn’t the number I meant to dial.”

The Insurance Manager paused at the despondent ring in the caller’s voice, then righted himself at the thought of the paperwork he still had to finish.

“Well…since I’ve got you on the line, perhaps you’d give me a bit of advice. I don’t know which suit to wear to my daughter’s wedding. Purple would be garish, but is SO me. Black is blah, but safe. What do YOU think?”

Trevor paused, then answered the rather desperate voice. “Well….” “Thought so. Purple has always been my favourite colour. Thanks, man. I’ll make sure to tell my friends about Trevor’s Heartline.”

Trevor glanced at the receiver, flummoxed.

Word spread faster than poor Trevor’s confusion. Over the week, Trevor received more phone calls at the office. Each began with “This wasn’t the number I meant to dial.”

An increasingly overwhelmed Trevor began dispensing increasingly random advice to flustered callers.

“Trevor, my mother won’t let me go out with this cute boy from school. What should I do?”

“Listen to her.“Oh, Trevor, my boss has given me an impossible task.”

“Tell him to finish it himself.”

“Trevor, the neighbours sing loudly outside my home at 6:00 a.m. every morning. What should I do?”

“Go out and sing with them.”

Strangely, every single suggestion — 

Worked.

The gifted counsellor soon had to field recommendations. And he had no idea why.

Trevor’s Heartline — 

Won hearts. Way more than he expected.

Journalists clamoured to interview him. He became a familiar face at podcasts.

A radio station sought him out, and he soon hosted his own counselling show.

Listeners found his avant-garde advice — 

Engaging.

Experts praised his refreshingly unconventional methodology.

Counselling professionals lauded his authenticity.

Trevor, wracked beyond belief, insisted that his counselling qualifications were “ten grades below zero.”

“I’m an insurance salesman…”

But his humility earned him even more fans.

Especially female ones.

No one listened to his explanations.

A journalist finally uncovered the bald truth after hours of surreptitious surveillance.

Trevor really knew — 

Nothing.

She gave the hassled podcast counsellor reprieve in an article with the headline:

“This wasn’t the number I meant to dial.”

Trevor read it and heaved a sigh of relief.

And received a new phone call.

“Help me, Trevor! Should I go with a grey or blue jacket?”

Trevor sighed.

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.

Image created using Chat GPT

Chillsville, a quirky town where fear was penned, 

By the residents’ cold and shaky hands, 

The records, seen as matters of routine — 

And the dark ink was fodder, rich, for the unseen. 

And after each blessed census, recorded, done — 

The residents’ written fears strangely vanish, gone

Chillsville’s folk cheer wildly, now no longer afraid

Joy is but a minute, with words penned in vain.

 Then Census Sally, with observant eye, then sees, 

In the penned records, faults, small inconsistencies

She brings them forth, at a town meeting, all outpoured

They are cast aside, pointedly, all ignored. 

And Census Sally visits Chillsville’s final home,

Where a blank census lay, a silent tomb. 

In a creased corner, in dark ink, their meaning plain — 

Two words, their cursive clear — -

Chillsville’s names. 

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.

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.

Mystery Hidden in Plain Sight

Avia was an unremarkable neighbourhood — unremarkable.
Save for the pigeons, which continually pecked at unsuspecting feet and blocked breadcrumbs.
One, a grey, nondescript fellow, had an unusual reputation—
He appeared continually outside different homes

That–
Was not unusual in itself.

Perhaps portentous.
But misfortune, as grey as he was, often followed his visits.
The first was a coincidence.

The second, him looking for food.

The pilgrimages increased.

The bird somehow knew.

The bird’s uncanny knack for disaster soon reached the notebook of reporter David Scroll. The journalist decided to spend some time in Avia to satisfy his curiosity. His notebook filled before his belief in its powers of foreboding did.

The pigeon was, at first, just another bird. Landing. Leaving. Landing. Leaving. But catastrophe rode on its wings. David recorded an unfortunate event every time it arrived. The evidence accumulated. His conviction didn’t. The bird’s beak remained closed.

So David decided to do what every good investigative reporter does– investigate. He followed the pigeon as it flew from its nest to different homes.

The sea of possibilities was far too vast. A trained bird. A hidden mastermind. Or pure instinct.

All real yet false.

It decided to land somewhere–

Ordinary.

Regular.

Puzzling.

Each time it landed, it landed somewhere new.

Then, its grey wings carried it into a fast flock of pigeons.
David could no longer see it.
Blending. Hidden. Omniscient.
Its foreboding had vanished into the grey commonplace.

Still plain.

The ordinary had foretold —
That some mysteries remained concealed because they blended in.

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.

The teacher welcomed the students into the
classroom, a tiny, crooked smile on her lips.
The morning had been quiet, the air thick
with anticipation of the exam questions.

A student, Elvin, stood hesitantly by the door.
“Ms Chung, look at that.” He pointed to
a faint, thin line across the whiteboard. Long, jagged
yet even, it seemed…too…sharp.

He blinked.

Ms Chung, eyes furrowed, glanced at the board.
“Probably just the marker pen. We must have
forgotten to clean it after yesterday’s class.”

Elvin’s eyebrows lifted questioningly. “That’s not whiteboard ink. It’s way too…red.”

Ms Chung simply distributed the Math papers. “You’ve got too much imagination, Elvin.

Focus on the test.”

But the little boy’s eyes fixed on the board.
The jagged line turned…took aim—

At him.

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.

A topsy-turvy tale of rubbish, rivalry and one relentlessly tidy cleaner.

The city of Stynk always broke convention—

It did so again by introducing its first Pollution Appreciation Festival. Citizens scrambled madly to outdo each other with  impressive piles of debris and noisy engines.

“Would you like a smoke?” Each would request, breathing black patches into the air.

The winner’s reward? A golden garbage can trophy.

The mess was—Stynky.

Elderly cleaner Bob Swipe was the only one who would swipe litter piles with perpetual persistence, earning everyone’s outrage.  

“Stinky.” He would intone.

Each sweep swept away a carbon masterpiece.

The judges were at their wits’ end—

There was no mess left to assess.

Not a recalcitrant stain on the pavements.

They banned Bob and banished him to Blandsville for excessive cleanliness.

Stynk tried again to recreate debris piles —-

But made garbage trucks that picked each one.

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.