Some confessions are preserved forever.

📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️

Evelyn Gomez was, by all accounts, the most meticulous of museum curators. Emotions were held firmly in check. Her mother’s dementia had depleted an entire store of memory.

So the obsession to keep things alive in the mind grew within. Along with the need to keep things unchanged. So she trusted numbers more than people. That kept her family far away from her.

No records spoiled under her care.

Except for those in Gallery 9. It always remained in frigid silence.Stillness that stretched too thinly. Polished floors gleamed with the help of weak security lights. She hardly passed it. Not from fear, but from–

Recognition. 

Not her recognition. The recognition of an exhibit that–

Remembered. 

The portrait waited, for whom, she didn’t know. Nor wanted to. 

📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️

Gallery 9 garnered an odd respect. VIsitors passed through as if entering a church. Camera flashes disturbed the stoic darkness.

The portrait revealed without accusation. 

A teen boy noted blood trails around the frame after lying about a hit and run. Needless to say, he received a six-month sentence post-truth.

Evelyn meticulously checked the painting. 

Blood trails encased it in a circle, like an ominous foretelling. 

She had not scheduled any restoration work. Her stomach tightened into a quiet knot. 

The museum grabbed attention on Google News. Visitors came to Gallery 9 in droves, hoping to get the painting to confess.

But the confessions came only with genuine secrecy.

Silence filled the gallery after each real change. 

📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️

The night passed. Evelyn passed the portrait the next morning. 

The lady stared at her, eyes gleaming, almost alive. 

As if in quiet greeting. 

The umbrella she held previously wasn’t in her hands. In its place was a hospital bracelet. 

With Evelyn’s mother’s name, Madeline. 

That night, in bed, Evelyn closed her eyes, trying to process her 

thoughts. 

Truth settled on her, heavier than any fear she might have had.

Grief loosened its grip on her chest.

She sat up, breathed, and spoke aloud.

“Mum…I’m sorry. The dementia stressed me more than it did you.I was just so…relieved.”

📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️

She passed Gallery 9 the next day.

The bracelet- now gone.

The portrait remained still.

Her mother’s features–

Softened. 

Almost smiling. 

The polished floors now shone, under stronger security lights, paid for by increased visits to the gallery, now in warm silence. 

The portrait preserved what people refused to name.

📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️📜🕰️

Original story 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.

🍀🍃🍀🍃🍀🍃🍀🍃🍀

Clovers, well hidden, with four leaves

Amongst the others three;

We glean them, keep them, take them whole

Then sadly let them be.

🍀🍃🍀🍃🍀🍃🍀🍃🍀

We believe they’re always there

In our cloistered garden;

And when we try not hard to look for them,

They do not pardon

🍀🍃🍀🍃🍀🍃🍀🍃🍀

Finding clovers takes all our time,

All our continuance;

Soulful search, many a moon,

And fitting circumstance.

🍀🍃🍀🍃🍀🍃🍀🍃🍀

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.

The boys thought they had brought home a trinket.
Something else followed.

***

Little John and jim

Find an old charm in an attic dim. 

They flick away the soot and dust

That covers it, despite the attic’s must–

Uncover gleaming eyes that blink. 

***

Then, along the corridor, and to the stairs;

A sound that grips with eerie flair

Marbles roll across the floor

Click.Bump. Click. Bump. on the door.

***

An Uncle sees the riddled charm, 

Balks at its possible harm

The warning, from where, no one knows

It leaves a chill that grips the toes. 

***

The clicking sounds own one final night

The last marble rolls, slowly, to give fright-

The Click! Click! sounds that echoed, grim

Returned in the air, a haunting hymn.

***

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 was another day of the grind. Punching in and out. 

Logging into the office network. Scouring the breakfast pantry for – nothing. Sucking up to the boss.

The usual, mind-numbing routine.  

👤🤖👤🤖👤🤖👤🤖👤

The monitor blurred; routine seemed too much even for my laptop. 

I needed reprieve, desperately 

“If only someone could take over these darned duties for just a week.” I muttered in a whisper

👤🤖👤🤖👤🤖👤🤖👤

The elevator reached the floor where my office was. It opened –

To me. 

Or something that looked like me, already seated at my desk. 

It was to do my work, depending on performance. 

I looked round.  No difference. No reaction. 

No notice. 

👤🤖👤🤖👤🤖👤🤖👤

The day came. We were to be told. My replacement and I stepped into  our superior’s office. 

It aced performance reviews. 

Precision. Dutifulness. Conformity. 

it recorded. Logged. Verified How could it not?

It moved faster. Its responses came immediately. 

Mine couldn’t. 

Everyone asked it to record. Log. Analyze. Elaborate.

PERFECTLY. 

I couldn’t.

👤🤖👤🤖👤🤖👤🤖👤

That workspace? That seat?

it was mine. i had to make them feel that 

I swiped my keycard. Access denied. 

Then bugged the receptionist to search for my records. 

The monitor lit up with a list. She scrolled down. 

Too slowly. 

None found. 

Tried the elevator access code. Jabbing buttons. Impatiently. 

“Please try again.”

If only I could try again. 

👤🤖👤🤖👤🤖👤🤖👤

Another day of the grind. Punching in, punching out. 

Logging into the office network –

Flawlessly. 

Scouring the breakfast pantry – oh. Yes. She didn’t need breakfast. Lunch. Or a salary. 

No one noticed. 

Nothing was out of place. 

i was. 

👤🤖👤🤖👤🤖👤🤖👤

Mirrors of the Mind 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 quiet descent into the spaces where nothing quite completes

As April draws to a close, we muse on its tendency to be –

Unfinished. 

What is incomplete doesn’t let go.

🌒✍️📄🕯️⏳🪶📬🌫️

April. Clara

In her room

Watching. Waiting

Its door shuts

Curtain’s felt fabric folds –

Inward. 

At her desk.

A letter.

Incomplete. 

🌒✍️📄🕯️⏳🪶📬🌫️

The door shuts –

Stopped.

The 

The fabric folds – 

Loose.

The tablecloth turned –

Up.

🌒✍️📄🕯️⏳🪶📬🌫️

The letter. 

Dusty. 

An entry.

In cursive.

Cut off. 

Unpenned.

🌒✍️📄🕯️⏳🪶📬🌫️

Midnight. 

A phone call.

Half-heard.

The paper –

Half-filled

🌒✍️📄🕯️⏳🪶📬🌫️

The letter –

To her son.

Almost complete –

Fading ink.

🌒✍️📄🕯️⏳🪶📬🌫️

Clara –

In her room –

Windows-

Half-open. 

The letter.

Almost written.

The envelope.

Almost sent. 

🌒✍️📄🕯️⏳🪶📬🌫️

The ink –

Vanishing. 

🌒✍️📄🕯️⏳🪶📬🌫️

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.

The apartment was Felicia’s  haven after hours of accounts, details, and micromanaging colleagues who did not understand the nuances of the business. the last thing the busy executive wanted to do was to deal with unnecessary  annoyances.

Spilled  coffee.  Misplaced keys. A missed bus.

There were times ife’s little things were simply-

Repulsive.

Life  was easier when she thought she had them to blame.

They were frustrating enough for her to download Caretaker –   an app that didn’t promise miracles.

just fewer bad moments.

The apartment was even more welcoming the next day. She micromanaged less, and colleagues responded.

The app was accurate enough to feel like luck.  Too accurate to feel right.

***

Felicia  couldn’t be parted from the app.  indispensable was an understatement.

She used it whenever she wanted to avoid doing anything inconvenient. Chores.  Accounts. z

 Even relationships.

 For  a time, it served her only too well. it fielded every inconvenience, including her accounts. 

The Caretaker App  also created agents that served  her spokespersons.  she used it whenever she was too busy to speak to anyone. 

“Felicia? Mum here. I need you to take me to the doctor.”

“Felicia’s not available. Is there a way I can assist you?”

 The inconveniences found her –

The more she avoided them.

She couldn’t ignore the accounts. The table parameters had been wrongly set. 

The wait at the Accident and Emergency department was four hours. 

***

The trivialities continued to grate under her skin. The app was still a solace –

No matter how grating it was. 

Until it lit up one evening. 

Another reminder. 

“Time to break your mother’s heart tonight.”

She had not written it. She quickly scrolled through the Appointments section of the app. 

Nothing. 

Then, a phone call. It was her mother. 

“Felicia, i need you to take me to..please..”

The app’s notification panel lit The agent interjected before Felicia could speak. “She is too busy to come to the phone now.”

Click. 

The line went dead.

Felicia returned the phone call. Still dead. 

Dead. 

The agents –

Too alive.

***

She deleted the app. Everything went quiet, for a while. 

But her fingers scrolled through the notifications again.

Predicting. 

Again. 

When was her father’s next appointment? What if…?

The app was gone. But she knew.

Too well. 

Still, every choice she made now had its –

Shadow. 

That notified. 

Too accurately. But she found it easier –

Far easier to respond. 

***

Mirrors of the Mind 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 door appears. A key insists. Some things are not meant to be opened.

***

Susan stood in her Rosewood Apartments unit, for once not packing her bags to rush off to the next. The unit she had agreed to rent was too perfect for her needs. The wallpaper peeled like years of flaky skin; the tap choked on its water. But it fit, an

Unpacking the boxes that she had brought in a few days before created a mental fog. The first night in her bedroom was more than celebratory. She got into bed and read for a while before putting out the light. But the silence gave weight to her blanket,and to her.  

A forbidding door appeared in Sulin’s mind, a sudden obstacle. Not hers to open. She stood before it, twisting a key in her hand. The temptation to open it disturbed her peace. Foreboding lingered the next morning, but she brushed it aside. She had just moved into this block of unkempt apartments after a difficult breakup, and under the circumstances, her nerves frayed. Her one nightmare carried more weight.

Clear, rhythmic taps punctured the hollow walls soon after she moved in. Shadows flashed in the periphery of her vision, always too quick to decipher. Dreams of the door, enlarging, intruded every night. Jarring as they were, she merely shooed them off.

“Just stress,” she convinced herself, her level-headed nature kicking in. “Unknown area, new lease on life. It’s all in my head.” She shook herself.

The sounds were a persistent drumbeat.

That lease soon expired, and the knocking grew louder. It actually grew so persistent that she left her apartment and wandered the dimly lit hallway, looking desperately for its source. She found only silence. The knocking resumed, however, as soon as she returned.

The door in her dream was different that night. It was closer to her now, with cracked wood, as if it had aged 100 years in a day.

Then, dark figures at the foot of her bed.

She woke with a start, her heartbeat erratic.

Su Lin rose, feeling puzzled. She couldn’t ignore the strangeness of her dream. The key offered no answers when she turned it about, examining it with her hands. Restless curiosity drove her to knock on the door of one of the apartment block’s long-term residents, Mrs Wong.

“it’s that key,” Mrs.Wong murmured after some thought.”Please thro

Su Lin looked at her, stunned. “Why? What does it open?”

Mrs. Wong’s face developed a serious expression. “I have seen this happening to others. A tenant who lived in your apartment years ago had the key. She claimed it opened a door to one room in the building, but never said which one. She became obsessed with it, going door to door to open each apartment. Then she disappeared mysteriously. No one has seen her since.”

Su Lin felt a chill run ominously down her spine. “Do you know which door it is?”

Mrs. Wong shook her head slowly, then looked at Su Lin. “No one does. But there are apartments in this building. No one opens them anymore.”

Su Lin left, her mind racing. The sound of the knocking grew louder and more insistent that night. And the dreams returned, scarier, more vivid than ever. In the most recent one, the door finally loomed before her, drawing to open it with magnetism she couldn’t resist. Her hand trembled, and she held her breath as she turned the key. The door creaked open ever so slowly, revealing darkness.

Su Lin woke with a start. Though she knew she had only dreamed it, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the door was real, and in the building. Driven by desperation, she began searching it and knocking on each. Nothing stood out. Until she reached the basement. The air there was dense, clogged with dust and dampness.

In the far corner, concealed behind stacks of forgotten furniture, she finally found it. The door. It was in ruins, and cracked, exactly as it had been in her dream. Her pulse raced madly as she pulled out the key.

Her heart thumped wildly as she held the doorknob. With a low groan, it opened slowly, revealing a narrow, unlit corridor. As she stepped through, the air grew chilly, and her skin prickled with discomfort. Eerie images seemed to dance along the walls. Su Lin called out, her voice quaking, but only silence greeted her.

As she moved forward, she felt the oppressive weight of the darkness on her shoulders. And then she saw it. A shrouded figure looming at the end of the corridor. Her breath caught in her throat as it slowly turned toward her, revealing hollow eyes that seemed to see through her.

Suddenly, the figure spoke her name. Su Lin backed away, her heart pounding in her chest, but the corridor seemed to stretch boundlessly behind her. The figure stepped closer, its presence cloying. Frightening.Panic surged through her, and she turned to flee. But before she could move, it slammed shut with a deafening thud. The knocking returned, louder than ever, now coming from behind the door she had just unlocked.

Mrs. Wong knocked on Su Lin’s door the next morning. When no one answered, she frowned and peered inside through the cracked doorframe. The apartment was frightening, still. The brass key lay on the floor, cold and untouched.

Su Lin? Unseen.

**

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

What listens when no one speaks?
What follows when no one is there?

Mirrors of the Mind is a collection of five psychological horror stories exploring memory, identity, and the quiet things we try not to see.

I’ve always been drawn to stories that linger rather than shock — ones that stay with you after the page is turned. This collection is my attempt at that kind of quiet unease.

If that resonates, you can find it here:

We sometimes wait to be told before we move.

She didn’t.

She moved anyway. 

🚶

I pushed my feet,

in, and out. In, and out. 

Against a treadmill,

Worn and torn.

To nowhere.

‘How’d I do?” I asked.

No answer. 

A blank stare. 

“How did I do?” I asked.

No answer. 

I shifted my feet. 

🚶🚶

Sessions passed. 

Silence after silence. 

Week after week.

My feet moved. 

Toes pushing, faster.

 I waited. And waited. ‘

When will I walk?’

No answer. 

🚶🚶🚶

Week after week.

Month after month.

Not answers, but questions.

Not speech, but silence.

She moves, mouth closed.

I wait, wide-eyed.

Then, my feet moved faster.

I was not stuck. 

I was stuck –

Waiting.

🚶🚶🚶🚶

So I stood.

I walked, out of the room. 

She looked. 

In stoic silence. 

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Today, Apil 10,the RMS Titanic departed. It was designed to carry passengers safely. 

It did not carry equally. 

✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑

the An airline crunch. A product of the ongoing war. 

Priority boarding entered the plane. 

They took their seats. The rest stood.

A little child had to stand. He stumbled as he grasped an armrest. The well-dressed lady, protected by her seat belt, grimaced as he nearly fell on top of her. 

Not from fear.

The line was drawn. Then, the plane took off. 

✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑

The seatbelt sign stayed on. No one could move.   Those without seats remained where they were. The child rubbed his legs, and cried. There was nowhere to go.           

✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑

The seated passengers curled back on their armrests. Infight TVs came on. 

Their hot meals arrived, promptly. Trays unfolded. 

The standing passengers shifted their weight. The little boy grasped a forbidden armrest. 

Eyes glared. 

✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑

An outstretched hand grasped the child. Freed him of support. 

“That seat’s not yours. Please return to where you were standing. You can’t stay there.”

The boy’s mother hurriedly ushered him to the spot. 

From the seat, a pair of eyes. 

✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑

Then, turbulence. Not minor. Not inconsequential. 

It rocked. 

Hands moved the boy to his place. He was pulled back. 

His hand slipped. 

No one moved. 

His legs slipped. 

No one moved. 

He fell. And rolled to the other end of the cabin. 

✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑

He was summarily returned to his position.

With a broken arm. No sling on board. 

He wailed. His flustered mother grimaced.

Meals continued for the seated. Their screens stayed on. 

Trays stayed open. Attendants served only them. Nothing paused. 

✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑

He wasn’t trapped. He could still fly. 

He just wasn’t prioritised. 

✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑✈️🪑

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!