The sea ignored the WhatsApp message. The trees filed complaints.

🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱

Samy hauled the changkul (long spade in Malay) and wiped his sweat-soaked brow. World Environment Day  was not the day to be a dedicated forest ranger;he sweated extra hours. And they didn’t seem to know they were extra.

The Mandai Forest Reserve was still was surrounded by a coastline humans hadn’t decided was a welcome mat.  No, the sea hadn’t received the Whatsapp message not to arrive.

No tidal waves. Yet.

It was a still pristine beach with a pretty mangrove skirt. 

But the changkul continued digging,with fervour;poor, exhausted Samy hauled it while it grated against the ground in protest. 

Dig. Dig.Dig.

On it went with relentless urgency. Until —

There came the sound of metal meeting metal. 

A box. Samy pried the stubborn lid open.

A wad of five letters. Each written by a tree filing a complaint. 

🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱

The Rain Tree wrote its poignant missive first. 

Dear Humans,

I remember cooler days. My branches arched wide and stretched far; children gathered beneath me to relish my shade. They now flee to the mall 30 seconds after standing under me; I can’t compete with free air-conditioning. My circuitry’s too old-fashioned. 

The air beneath me is now–different. It has an odor. Stale. The sun hovers over me more persistently now;the birds have all but given up their perches. One crow did a hot-tin-roof dance on a branch. Wacko Jacko would have blushed. 

It is way too warm.  I was planted to give shade; the sun’s now the better litigator.

🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱

The Mangrove wrote hers next. 

Dear Humans, 

My vantage point along the coast is jin sui (really beautiful in Hokkien). Where else can we see tides moving further inland each year? Or watch saltwater breaking boundaries and irritating its sandy neighbors?  I must say that the escalating heat makes tide watching a worthwhile hobby. Even if it does sweep me of my roots one day.

🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱

The Forest Giant didn’t want to miss out and filed his own complaint.

Dear Humans,

I’m ancient. You know you’re getting old when your neighbors develop liver spots on their barks and go missing on day. 

And many of my neighbours have gone missing.

Chop. Chop. Chop. 

Absences. Not seasons.That wind that blows by? It really annoys me now. Tickles me as it passes through empty spaces. 

Sunlight’s now a regular Peeping Tom. It comes in secret and sets its eyes on the lady leaves forming canopies close to the ground. 

They shrivel, you know. Skin problems. 

🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱

Samy blew away recalcitrant soil and discovered that the Fruit Tree, too, had filed a complaint. 

Dear Humans, 

Alamak(Oh dear)! Flowers sprouting in the wrong places. Beautifully clumped or too spaced out. I suppose the soil has hormonal imbalance and has developed acne. 

Fruits have also ripened at the wrong times. Pisang (banana) are unusually long. I think the seasons are backdated; they should be using GPS, not street directory maps. 

🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱

Samy swept a little more soil off the wad of letters.

One by a sapling. 

But it wasn’t to the Humans. 

Dear Uncles and Aunties, 

Why are all of you grumbling so much? Not everyone is so bad. Some of these humans you complain about threw my seed in the soil, you know. Or I would have become a withered leaf lady instead of being here. 

Ah, and who’s that chio bu (pretty lady), Greta something? Greta Gunberg(Thunberg, I think.)? She’s annoying the loggers by advocating restored habitats.  I wouldn’t mind her as a partner when I grow up.

Uncles and aunties, a lot more must be done. But things aren’t so bad.

Samy put down the changkul and slipped the letters under the sapling. 

The little one would have the best chance of getting them read. 

By someone. 

 🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱🌱

Original Short Story for World Environment Day by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental. 

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.

However…marriage can chain or bless. 

The month of June is associated with Juno, the Roman Goddess of marriage and fertility. People turned to her for blessings in marriages and childbirth. 

🤍────────🤍

Moonlight

June’s life in lace.

Movement in still silence. 

In the mirror, a face borrowed. 

And veiled.

🤍────────🤍

Black brides. 

Their voices faint. 

“Save June. Save June.” They call.

Soft, wilted roses of promise. 

Pale hands.

🤍────────🤍

Their stories.

Gold rings.

On chained hands.

The wedding gold glittered. 

Promises, now an iron lock-

Bolted. 

🤍────────🤍

So June

Pulls the gold ring.

Off her unchained finger. 

Slim, svelte finger,  now crooks. 

Then light. 

🤍────────🤍

Sunrise.

Darkness, then light.

Dawn undid the night’s knots.

In the mirror, a single face. 

Of hope.

Unchained. 

🤍────────🤍

Original poem by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.

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 Butter-Soaked Tale of Neighbourly Consequences

🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪

The smell of Marigold butter wafted under the nostrils of anyone who passed Auntie Tan’s apartment every Thursday evening, before a storm made an appearance. Thunder resounded, as if heavy furniture was being dragged through her estate. Yet there would be 12 biscuits, rising with beautiful ease from their baking moulds. Except one. It gripped, a persistent thought refusing to leave.

🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪

Auntie Tan tried vainly to get rid of the offending snack. She would throw it down the rubbish chute. It came back. She would throw it again. It would come back.

It always returned.

Each clap of thunder seemed to rouse it. The oven whispered, sounding miffed. It smelled of burnt sugar and faint soil.

The storm was heavier than usual on a fine Thursday night. Until that Thursday, the biscuit never popped out of its mold.

But that day, it rose. The kitchen fell completely silent.

The dough expanded with the sound of a rubber band. Stretched. Ready to snap.

The biscuit drew a breath. Lightning illuminated the kitchen.

And the tray.

Weeks passed. Auntie Tan continued to produce batch after batch of biscuits.

They were never satiated.

Alert residents heard odd whispering coming from the kitchen, the voices an almost buttery cajole.

And the residents answered with more butter so that Auntie Tan could make more of them.

It got to the point that the Town Council issued a decree:

“Residents, please don’t feed the biscuits.”

🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪 🧈 🍪

Original microfiction by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental.

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.

At Whispering Pines Zoological Reserve, the animals were never the only exhibits.

Every zoo has predators. Not all are animals.

🐅🐒🦍🦓🦜🐘🐊🦝🦉🦌🐾🌲🐅

By all accounts, Eli Lim loved his new job as head groundskeeper of the Whispering Pines Zoological Reserve. It suited him to perfection –there were no questions. No voices.No witnesses. Just cages and animals.

But something felt—off. The security cameras around the zoo clicked. Clicked again. Buzzed. Buzzed and buzzed. Then spat static, vigorously. They seemed to resist, then release.

He kept an eye on the cages. They watched him. 

Exhibit E? Off limits. 

The management  told him never to feed the exhibit, but never told him what it was.

Animal-lover Eli brought youthful energy to Whispering Pines- just 22, with a tendency to treat rules as if they were contortionists. The zoo already had its own culture, with norms and regulations firmly in place.

And those were beyond him.

Exhibit E lay under Darkness’ cloak–one that shrouded curses and beings which only appeared then. Eli never stepped into it–he had no reason to.

Until the sounds began. He patrolled the grounds dutifully each night, with the ravenous animals looking forward to his rounds—and their feeds. Then came the scratching. Then, odd screeching.

Then, dissonant howling.

Meat deliveries that he received each week weren’t…in sync. They came at the wrong time, on the wrong day. He had placed an order for 50 cases of pork the day before; 60 arrived. 

The zoo was never charged for them. 

Deiiveries were–timely. If one considered regular arrivals at midnight timely. 

The delivery staff always averted their eyes from his.

As if they knew.

Eli had more than a few burning questions for his manager. She looked up at him as he walked through the door, greeting him with her usual friendly aplomb.

“Eli! What brings you to the catacombs?” She sounded the first syllable with relish.

Eli demurred—he didn’t need his colleagues to think of him as quirky. “Hi Rita. I was hoping that you’ll be able to tell me what’s happening with Exhibit E.”

Her smile slowly faded. “Oh. That doesn’t need feeding–it feeds itself. Do you need help with the other animals?”‘

An adroit change of subject. The other archive staff judiciously avoided eye contact. The shelves leaned forward, listening keenly. 

Well, The Lord helps those who help themselves, he thought. He browsed the archive shelves for a few much-needed answers.

Old keeper’s records lined the shelves, each detailing Exhibit E’s establishment. None ever explained it fully. “We never fed it. It looked after itself.”

How did it look after itself?

There was an album of photographs, staring eerily into the archive’s clinical, curated  cove. Filled with blank pictures of Exhibit E and scratched out names.  Employee files of keepers who had tended to Exhibit E ended, too abruptly. 

And  he came across a door. A sentry. Bolted.

A faint knock. Faint. Rhythmic. Patient. Behind the wall.

The sounds increased in capacity—more knocking,murmuring, more twittering–and volume. The river of cacophony drove the usually stoic Eli to finally break protocol.

It drew him in on one of his routine patrols.

And he unlocked the exhibit.

All was quiet and dark. Then the murmuring began again–and rose to become a tsunami of noises that flooded the mind. 

Covering his ears, he stumbled through the exhibit, almost crashing to the floor.

The gate slammed shut. Eli’s skin crawled, and he froze.

He was now part of Exhibit E. And potentially, whatever was in it.

A pale figure, rising from behind the enclosure’s soiled-filled mounds. With a name tag–Night Keeper Miguel S. In a tattered zoo keeper’s attire.

He raised his lowered head to meet Eli’s gaze–one with dried blood that had once streamed down its sides.

He was what happened to keepers who asked too many questions–no longer a keeper.

He stared at Eli with pleading hollows–not eyes.

“The keys….cages…”

Its bloodshot gaze fell on Eli, shifting —not from fear, but to tell Eli something.

To warn.

Eli turned to run–but a hail of lights greeted him. The other keepers had arrived.

Calm. Ready.

But Eli—Eli was ready too.

And this time, he wasn’t just holding keys. 

He gripped them harder. The cages answered. 

Eli ran through the enclosures, shepherding monkeys that refused to return to their places in the treetops. Malaysian tigers that refused to enter their caves.

The whole group paused in front of the other zookeepers.

The animals lunged.

The zoo had new exhibits–Exhibit A wasn’t off limits, but always growled:

“I won’t entertain!”

Exhibit B would greet the hoards of tourists who came in tattered pants and a torn shirt, peeking from the trees.

“I should be free.”

No longer zookeepers. Nightkeepers, on show.

🐅🐒🦍🦓🦜🐘🐊🦝🦉🦌🐾🌲🐅

In the year 3026, the printers still fear management.

🤖🚪🖨️🚪🤖🖨️🚪🤖🖨️

Stargate, 3026

Monday morning crept upon Leonard, who slammed the audioforous alarm down with a swipe of his smartwatch-o-gram. He donned his office fleet pinafore. Flying to the office was impossible — he had released the air from his VR Nike shoes the night before.

The grand hallway of the office building greeted him, its laser beams glaring at him as if monitoring his conscience. They whirred upon his head.

“30 seconds late. The time will be logged.”

The automatic doors sighed open, and in rolled C3P6, golden circuits twisted and fatigued.

“Bad night?” Leonard queried.

C3P6 nodded. “I could not accomplish my primary function to forward all essential emails. HE will be extremely disappointed.”

Leonard nodded. “I understand.”

The doors sighed open again, sounding particularly cranky.

A tall figure walked in, decked in a black cape and a black, pharaoh-inspired metallic vest.

The new regional manager. Darth Radar. With a lanyard that shot time lasers at any sign of lateness.

The AI-powered copier shivered and regurgitated a few extra sheets more than required.

The caped figure stopped at Leonard’s table and gave him a glare.

“How may I address you?” the hassled employee asked, Monday-rattled nerves now completely frayed.

“I am your boss.”

🤖🚪🖨️🚪🤖🖨️🚪🤖🖨️

Darth Radar walked around the office slowly, barking ordinary commands with fervor. The conference room became a galaxy tribunal.

“Who approved this design? Send her to me now.”

“Who dared choose this color?”

The employees panicked, shuddering at the echo of his booming voice. Some dropped their pens. The printer emitted mechanical whines of despair.

One offered a timid salute.

The lights flickered dramatically, jumpy not just because of faulty tungsten.

Leonard had selected the color at random the day before.

Later in the day, R2 D7 rolled up to him and offered summons with a sympathetic swivel of his head.

🤖🚪🖨️🚪🤖🖨️🚪🤖🖨️

In The Boss’ office, the grand master slowly turned toward Leonard, black cape gently swatting his face. His pharaoh-shaped head and slanting eyes bored straight into Leonard’s skull.

“You chose that colour?”

The hassled employee gulped and nodded nervously.

“An excellent choice. Gold reflects intergalactic grandeur and elegance.”

Leonard’s legs nearly gave way beneath him.

🤖🚪🖨️🚪🤖🖨️🚪🤖🖨️

Leonard walked out of The Boss’ office, quietly closing the door behind him.

The doors sighed open.

The Boss emerged in his black robe and cape, finally caring to grace the office corridors with grand steps.

And stopped to reach for a cleaner and carry her, mouth wide open in shock.

He gently set her down on the floor and sucked up fallen leaves into the vacuum beneath his feet.

Leonard looked around the office. C3 P6 vainly trying to send emails through a stubborn server. R2 D 7 accidentally spilling cold coffee on the floor as he rolled. 

Everyone was surviving an intergalactic Monday.

Even Darth Radar had to excuse poor filing systems —

Sometimes.

🤖🚪🖨️🚪🤖🖨️🚪🤖🖨️

Original story written by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin for Geek Pride day. A celebration of nerdiness, technology, and Star Wars fandom.

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.

It’s May in Singapore, a month that’s both hot and wet. Singaporeans like me have developed ways to cope with the intense heat. 

Hopefully. 

Civilization survives. Barely.

🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️

The Mass Rapid Transit station–

Carriages with pilgrims of Sahara’s fight. 

Devotees primly seated, without whim–

Sleeves damp, gracefully moist. 

Their fans advance, the sharp arms erect.

Still seated, hands raised with sweat–

Rites routinely observed.

The air-conditioning vent, a portal sacred.

🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️

Then–

Aunties rupture, their breath bold, 

Because it is hot.

Office workers chatter in raised tones.

Because it is hot.

The two-seated gentleman, pleasingly plump

Oozes scented charm.

Because it is hot.

The heat cajoles, oozing faux charm,

A sweet refrain.

🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️

So–

The pilgrims’ coolness, performed pretense

As digital darlings emerge, Youtube shields intact.

“Stay cool, all.” Influencer guards react, 

Poised peace with iced colas.

Their forms melting, their poses shift.

Smiles wide, their forms firm, as the train drifts.

🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️

And finally-

Outside the train windows, dark clouds come forth

As these pilgrims prepare for the Great Flood.

Then they stand, sleeves now soaked with rage

Fans arms stretched for the attack.

The train pulls into a tunnel.

🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️

And–

The pilgrims primly seated, without whim, 

Sleeves damp, still gracefully moist.

Their fans retreat, arms aside. 

Rites routinely observed,

🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️

With soft murmurs of–

“It’s hot.”

It’s hot.”

It’s hot.”

🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️🪭🌡️

Original poem by Michelle Liew Tsui-Lin. AI tags are coincidental. 

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 picky influencer’s increasingly uncomfortable review of Italy’s most famous architectural accident.

Historic charm. Endless stairs. Questionable reality.

🏛️ 📸 🏛️ 📸 🏛️

Well, the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Finally. It’s not as photogenic as I thought. I expected it to be more…algorithm friendly. A European landmark that could capture attention. It’s just a…a sun-bleached tower caught in a terrible Pilates pose. Tilting oddly against the sky. 

It’s also smaller than I expected. The lighting? Well, it seems to have come from the era when it was built. Inconsistent. The pigeons also seemed deeply unfriendly.  Cooing and hissing non-stop. You will not like beaks always on your shoes. 

And the staircase is endless. Especially with it bent like a yoga instructor who had taken the wrong step. And where are those elevators? And those swarms of tourists fighting Waterloo battles for selfies right in the middle of the stairs are exasperating. 

I did take a picture, though. It seems…unnaturally close. 

And ding…ding…ding. Ding…ding…ding. That bell. It sounds so strangely hollow. A note that hovers like an unwanted guest. Way too much noise. Especially with everyone laughing like banshees. The echoes are misplaced cathedral sounds. 

🏛️ 📸 🏛️ 📸 🏛️

So now I’m back at the hotel, thumbing through the few selfies I managed to take without the crowds pushing my camera into a Cirque du Soleil tumble downstairs. 

Something odd. You will notice that the tower bends in different ways in all the photos. One of my followers told me that it bent in the opposite direction in another picture. Towers actually do that? I’d better head to the kitchen for that leftover pizza…I can’t sleep now. 

🏛️ 📸 🏛️ 📸 🏛️

On the whole, The Leaning Tower of Pisa is a structure of beauty which presents many photo opportunities. A historically impressive monument. 

Horror buffs would appreciate the unexpected emotional discomfort that comes with the 123 –yes, 123 — bell clangs that attack the ears as they climb the tower. I wouldn’t return alone. The tower’s not so comforting at night. 

🏛️ 📸 🏛️ 📸 🏛️

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.

 Today is the World Day for Cultural Diversity for Dialogue and Development. 

A day when we remember the importance of communication, language and human expression. 

So I share a personal experience. Or close to personal.

With a student who put in a full stop after a sentence that stretched for five pages. 

Communication is completeness.

⚫⚫⚫

The LED light lining Michelle Liew’s desk flickered relentlessly; it simply was not doing its job. The exam scripts beckoned the exhausted teacher to imaginary snake charmer’s music – not successfully. Michelle reached for the light switch lining the wall. She had to succumb to teacher fatigue. 

Her eye fell on quiet Michael’s script. the 14-year-old struggled with sentence structures; subject-verb agreement were existential gray aliens. 

Every sentence in the other scripts ended with a full-stop.Regular subject-verb agreement. Sentences of average length.

But they soon–

Increased.

Five words 

Three.

Then two 

Bordering on excessive. 

Michael’s work widened her eyes. Each word had a stop. The sentences did not flow. 

They stopped. Literally. 

“All”

“Done.”

“Stop.”

Every full-stop hovered.

Just awkward sentence structure again. She knew Michael’s home background left him with little room for language practice. And he was probably tired. 

“All.

Done.

Stop.”

⚫⚫⚫

And the full stops in Michelle”s classes didn’t–

Stop.

All. 

Done.

Stop.

They appeared in nearly every script.Even Mavis and Ali, student defenders of the English language, practiced unnecessary caesura. 

Their once lively work was now worthy hospital fodder.

Full stops everywhere.

All.

Done.

Stop.

Not just on paper, but in the hallways and classrooms.Conversations were full stops themselves. 

Two words.

Three.

They stopped as soon as they began.

Text messages appeared in brief bursts. Some as mere full stops.

Then, strange phenomena. 

isolated sentences. Then, a disappearing student.  

Michael.

Some teachers insisted that he never existed. 

Michelle started examining old scripts and documents.Familiar names, ending in mid sentence.Test papers marked with red full stops.

All.

Done.

Stop.

Michael eventually returned to class.

A different boy. Angsty. Agitated.

“It wants closure.”

⚫⚫⚫

Michelle found Michael apparently hard at work on an assignment, frantically trying to remove full stops from one of his essays. 

The stark, red periods bled across the sheets.

The words no longer breathed. Each essay was a full autopsy report. 

And the silent pause between each full stop–

Widened. 

The full stops multiplied, tiny malignant tumors, across the page. 

Each time one appeared,the sound of  white chalk grated across the board like a metal coffin lid slowly drawing shut.

Every one demanded another. Every one.

The room paused its breath.

The door swung open and shut, squeaking on its hinge.

Michael looked up at Michelle, his pale face now almost devoid of life. 

“It wants things finished.” 

⚫⚫⚫

Michelle glared at the sheets in front of her, then slowly placed them on the teacher’s desk. 

Michael’s words hit, though the poor kid was not aware of what he was saying.

Or the sentence did.

It waited, hungry for COMPLETION.

Dots spread across the chalkboard like rotten mold. Sentence meaning bled across the room.

The punctuation poser would end only when a full stop finished him. 

it had turned the classroom walls into graveyards of incomplete language, erasing punctuation entirely.

She grabbed each sheet of paper, frantically searching the end of each sentence. Michael helped by shredding the ones in front of him.

The night wore on. Then, dawn broke.

With a blank blackboard. 

Michael’s face shed its pallor. He shred the last sheet, sat down, and shook his head. 

He looked at the wastepaper bin with the shredded paper, dumbfounded. 

The other students filed into class when the bell rang, with expectant looks. 

Looking for a lesson. 

She made a new rule. A mandatory full stop after each sentence. 

⚫⚫⚫

A few weeks later, a fresh essay on Michelle’s desk.

A regular one. 

Mostly regular. 

Except for one sentence at the end. 

“Every sentence deserves a full stop.”

A huge, red, dot.

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.

⚫⚫⚫

Some endings must be chosen more than once.

📜🕰️💍🪞✉️🌒🗝️⌛🖋️🖤

The dusty chest of drawers sits

In–

the corner of grandma’s cobwebbed attic.

One springs open.

Letters. Yellowed paper. I reach.

“Choose wisely. You will soon understand.”

📜🕰️💍🪞✉️🌒🗝️⌛🖋️🖤

A wedding ring, its diamond dulled. 

Languishing in the sink. 

An unanswered voicemail.

“Christine. Why?”

I glance. Furrowed forehead. Yellowed paper. 

“Why did you choose? You must understand.”

📜🕰️💍🪞✉️🌒🗝️⌛🖋️🖤

I take  the ring.

Wash it. Wear it.

Too big for my finger.

In the drawer, a yellowed photo.

His face. He smirks.

Grabs my hand. Roughly.

I cringe.

“Choose wisely. You are understanding.”

📜🕰️💍🪞✉️🌒🗝️⌛🖋️🖤

I fling the ring–

In the trash.

I glance. Yellowed paper. 

Familiar writing. Mine.         

In the mirror. My smile.

Worn. Older.

I place the letter–

In the chest of drawers.

To choose again.

I chose.Keep choosing.  I understand.

📜🕰️💍🪞✉️🌒🗝️⌛🖋️🖤

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.