Every clue appeared. Every clue vanished

☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️

The rain drummed its restless fingers against the library’s glass windows. Detective Marcus tapped his own fingertips on one of the rosewood tables.

He was annoyed…the aroma of the cappucino eluded him. He couldn’t appreciate how fragrant it was…or wasn’t.

Rainwater leaked into its already dark, dank corridors; doors creaked with pain. It seemed that the library remembered the homicide faster than anyone could.

The last thing he needed taking up his much-needed time was an old murder that had come out of the refrigerator.

The trained gumshoe didn’t see it going anywhere. 15 years in refrigeration. The little details would have escaped the student witness faster than Houdini.

Well, he needed Houdini now. As luck would have it, the police department’s psychologist, Dr. Fong, had made a useful suggestion for once.

“Hypnosis. It may stimulate her temporal lobes enough to tell us something.”

So Detective Tan arranged for a session.

As it turned out, some memories did a Houdini-style escape from her mind.

.

A stranger. Just his silhouette. Grabbing someone by the shoulder.

While the witness slept.

Marcus sat up.

☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️

The witness, Marilyn, soon recollected the fatal event. But she sounded too…precise. Lived. Too spot-on for the experienced gumshoe to believe. Too many details she couldn’t have known unless she had been privy to the investigation.

Or–

The crime. 

The detailed disclosure sparked his curiosity. So, he answered.

But the few leads her dreams provided were footprints in very dense fog. Each revealed footprint was covered again, unseen. 

He came up with more questions than answers. 

So, back to the cold case file cataloged among hundreds of others in the departments very muggy archives. 

He found the box he needed. Finally. 

And that Marilyn hadn’t been the only one whose dreams the stranger had visited. 

Others had. In fact, they were a recurring pattern that stretched back decades. 

The victim, it seemed, wouldn’t  stay silent. His photograph stared purposefully at him from the page. 

Marilyn, and others, were his conduits. 

☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️

Marcus had to know. So Marilyn dreamwalked a few more times for Dr. Fong, unwilling though she was. 

The final session saw her shoot straight up from her chair, pale-faced. 

“I saw him,” She gripped the edge of her chair. “I saw him!!!” 

Marcus held her hand, concerned. Her voice took on fresh urgency. 

“The stranger’s not your killer…he wants to tell you who it was…because….’

Dr. Fong and Marcus glanced at each other. 

And realised. 

☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️

A little dreamwalk cajoling and Henry Lee, th stranger-victim, came up with a tale of two rivals. 

Love rivals. Marcus shook his head. 

Same old, same old.

He and another student, Bob Lim, had an interest in common–

Marilyn. 

And love hath no fury like a hotblooded youth scorned. 

Marilyn and Bob had been dating–they had their own shared interests. 

Enter Bob and a very jagged-edged kitchen knife. 

And Henry? The main course. 

“How did you know it was Henry? He never showed his face to you…until…” Marcus arched his eyebrows.

Marilyn pursed her lips. “There was a smell…..”

Marcus smiled wanly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to describe that in more detail…not much for smells 

since an accident decided to make things difficult for my nose.”

So she did. 

Bob was arrested and summarily charged. 

A few days later, Marcus sat with the same box in front of him, with a marker.

He  sealed the lid and it closed, satisfied. 

Closed, in black marker. 

Marcus’ marker. 

A photograph of Henry had been in the box. Marcus had placed it on his desk. 

A small tribute. 

And Henry’s smile widened.

☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️☁️🌧️☁️

Original mystery 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.

This International Children’s Day, Detective Marcus Tan reflects on an accident that took away an important sense when he was twelve. It had a bearing on his work. Did it? We rely on what we have left.

🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀

The first responder, as luck would have it, thought Detective Marcus Tan.

The dark warehouse was devoid of light, save for a lone ray of sun light that leaked through the boarded windows. It stood stoically silent; it had been abandoned for years.

The facility was decrepit; moss crawled up the walls. An odor of must punctured the otherwise stale air.  

Witnesses and the investigative team wrinkled their noses; an impossible scent wrapped around them like a too-tight sarong. As Marcus trained his eagle eyes on the unwilling crowd that found themselves victims of crime, a ribbon of smoke curled through the air, as if beckoning the gumshoe to a clue that shouldn’t exist. 

” Could you describe the smell?” Detective Tan shot a question that caught the attention of the forensic specialists around him. Several looked up with an eyebrow raised. Didn’t he have his own words for it?

🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀

Work was ongoing. Marcus and the investigative team couldn’t process the warehouse in a single sitting; the murder had been brutal. Graphic, with the requisite evidence lost or, as any detective would hope, left to capture. He returned to complete the work the next day

He was alone– the rest of the team had their weekend obligations. That made things a little —

Difficult.

A faint, gray ribbon of smoke crept through the shadows, wafting through the corridors and charred doorways. This was a death by arson–no doubt. The only question he had was–

By whose hand?

The gray ribbon would tell him that. Specifically, its smell.

There was something about its odor. Or nothing.

He couldn’t smell it. An accident he had as a kid had robbed him of that sense. He needed the team’s help for that, though he never told them.

So, he watched. 

More carefully than anyone would.  While the forensic team was guided by its odor, he was guided by its movement.

So he analyzed it. 

🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀

The smoke always ended behind a wall of rock -solid concrete.

Marcus ordered a canine search. The cadaver canine unit started its work immediately.

It wasn’t long before one of the dogs sat directly in front of a suspicious brick.

Marcus tugged at it.

Soon, a humongous hole and a set of Excel sheets. The wall surrendered what it had concealed for too long.

Further digging.

The evidence surfaced.

Human remains.

Further investigation revealed fraud and an attempt by unscrupulous company managers to hide it.

By hiding the accountant himself.

Behind 5 ft of concrete.

But he hadn’t remained behind the wall.

🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀

The discovery made headlines in the Singapore Times.

Everyone reeled in their comfortable armchairs. The company was renowned for its squeaky-clean advertisements and image.

Everyone came to the foregone conclusion.

A dissatisfied employee seeking more renumeration.

He discovers the fraud and asks for more.

The managers, compelled to give and desperate, seal him, live, behind the wall.

But Marcus wasn’t convinced.

Then his eyes fell on something a little–

Out of place.

The fraudulent transfers on the spreadsheet started before the managers made any transfers themselves.

Marcus flipped quickly through the stack of papers before him.

Emails.

Approval chains.

Bank records

And every transfer was made by the–

Accountant.

His fingerprints were on every sheet of paper.

He hadn’t blown the whistle.

He had created it.

And solicited the help of his bosses.

The truth had undone him

One that he had created.

🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀

Marcus secured a warrant for the managers’ arrest. The warehouse was scheduled for demolition for the following month.

He returned a final time and stood behind the broken wall.

At the place where an accountant, a fraudster and a victim were the same man.

The truth had surfaced.

The truth, he thought, billows through the bricks.

🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀

Language for Effect Questions

Question 1

The writer describes the scent as:

“an impossible scent wrapped around them like a too-tight sarong.”

What effect does the comparison to a “too-tight sarong” create? Support your answer with details from the phrase.

---

Question 2

The writer describes the smoke as:

“a ribbon of smoke curled through the air, as if beckoning the gumshoe to a clue that shouldn’t exist.”

How does the phrase “beckoning the gumshoe” contribute to the mysterious atmosphere of the passage?

---

Question 3

The writer states:

“moss crawled up the walls.”

What does the word “crawled” suggest about the condition of the warehouse?

---

Question 4

The writer describes the warehouse as:

“stoically silent.”

How does this description affect the reader’s impression of the setting?

---

Question 5

The writer writes:

“The wall surrendered what it had concealed for too long.”

What effect does the word “surrendered” have on the reader’s understanding of the discovery?

---

Question 6

The writer states:

“The truth, he thought, billows through the bricks.”

What does the image of truth “billowing through the bricks” suggest about the nature of truth?

---

Question 7

The writer describes the smoke as:

“a faint, gray ribbon of smoke crept through the shadows.”

How do the words “faint”, “gray”, and “crept” contribute to the mood of the passage?

---

Question 8

The writer says:

“He hadn’t blown the whistle. He had created it.”

How does the short sentence structure emphasise the twist in the story?

---

Harder Evaluation Question (Text 3 Style)

The writer repeatedly uses images of smoke throughout the story.

Explain how the image of smoke develops the theme of truth in the passage. Support your answer with evidence from different parts of the text.

Michelle Liew used to teach English in Singapore’s MOE system. These days, she works online with students who need structure, clarity, and language.

For enquiries about online English lessons, feel free to send her a WhatsApp message

This International Children’s Day, Detective Marcus Tan reflects on an accident that took away an important sense when he was twelve. It had a bearing on his work. Did it? We rely on what we have left.

🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀

The first responder, as luck would have it, thought Detective Marcus Tan.

The dark warehouse was devoid of light, save for a lone ray of sun light that leaked through the boarded windows. It stood stoically silent; it had been abandoned for years.

The facility was decrepit; moss crawled up the walls. An odor of must punctured the otherwise stale air.  

Witnesses and the investigative team wrinkled their noses; an impossible scent wrapped around them like a too-tight sarong. As Marcus trained his eagle eyes on the unwilling crowd that found themselves victims of crime, a ribbon of smoke curled through the air, as if beckoning the gumshoe to a clue that shouldn’t exist. 

” Could you describe the smell?” Detective Tan shot a question that caught the attention of the forensic specialists around him. Several looked up with an eyebrow raised. Didn’t he have his own words for it?

🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀

Work was ongoing. Marcus and the investigative team couldn’t process the warehouse in a single sitting; the murder had been brutal. Graphic, with the requisite evidence lost or, as any detective would hope, left to capture. He returned to complete the work the next day

He was alone– the rest of the team had their weekend obligations. That made things a little —

Difficult.

A faint, gray ribbon of smoke crept through the shadows, wafting through the corridors and charred doorways. This was a death by arson–no doubt. The only question he had was–

By whose hand?

The gray ribbon would tell him that. Specifically, its smell.

There was something about its odor. Or nothing.

He couldn’t smell it. An accident he had as a kid had robbed him of that sense. He needed the team’s help for that, though he never told them.

So, he watched. 

More carefully than anyone would.  While the forensic team was guided by its odor, he was guided by its movement.

So he analyzed it. 

🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀

The smoke always ended behind a wall of rock -solid concrete.

Marcus ordered a canine search. The cadaver canine unit started its work immediately.

It wasn’t long before one of the dogs sat directly in front of a suspicious brick.

Marcus tugged at it.

Soon, a humongous hole and a set of Excel sheets. The wall surrendered what it had concealed for too long.

Further digging.

The evidence surfaced.

Human remains.

Further investigation revealed fraud and an attempt by unscrupulous company managers to hide it.

By hiding the accountant himself.

Behind 5 ft of concrete.

But he hadn’t remained behind the wall.

🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀

The discovery made headlines in the Singapore Times.

Everyone reeled in their comfortable armchairs. The company was renowned for its squeaky-clean advertisements and image.

Everyone came to the foregone conclusion.

A dissatisfied employee seeking more renumeration.

He discovers the fraud and asks for more.

The managers, compelled to give and desperate, seal him, live, behind the wall.

But Marcus wasn’t convinced.

Then his eyes fell on something a little–

Out of place.

The fraudulent transfers on the spreadsheet started before the managers made any transfers themselves.

Marcus flipped quickly through the stack of papers before him.

Emails.

Approval chains.

Bank records

And every transfer was made by the–

Accountant.

His fingerprints were on every sheet of paper.

He hadn’t blown the whistle.

He had created it.

And solicited the help of his bosses.

The truth had undone him

One that he had created.

🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀

Marcus secured a warrant for the managers’ arrest. The warehouse was scheduled for demolition for the following month.

He returned a final time and stood behind the broken wall.

At the place where an accountant, a fraudster and a victim were the same man.

The truth had surfaced.

The truth, he thought, billows through the bricks.

🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀🧱💀

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 Singapore horroredy poem about slime, systems and slow-moving problems.

In Block 48, the slugs arrived quietly. The committees arrived louder.

🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌

The hard, rain pelts stop on the window panes.

The Lift buttons damp as cold breath. 

Rising rainwater in small side drains. 

Silver, slime streak along the void deck,

Unseen as busy feet fall. 

Slithery sliding, silver antennae glistening. 

An Uncle on the Resident’s Chat. 

“Why so much silver, is someone too rich?”

The estate slid by slowly.

🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌

Stay safe and stoic, advised the Town Council.

Gastropods. A Gastropod Governing Guild grew. 

Laminated assurances fluttered by mailboxes. 

Typed concerns in stoic Arial.

Salt circles, cautiously cropped, outside homes. 

Then-

Generous grumbling. 

A resident on the chat.

“Why take so long to catch them, ah? 

Slugs got power. ah?”

The brooms gather, grumbling.

The lift breathes. Boldly.

🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌

The silver streaks swarmed steadily

Roused rivers rising beneath yellow fluorescence. 

Then, corridors clean at dawn, empty before sunset.

The cleaner auntie mops.

“So slimy, strange, ah.” 

Her angry whispers traveled faster than the slimy slugs.

Only she moved without fear. 

🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌

The Singapore Straits Streaming Service arrives to film 

The silver streak of slugs. 

Stairs Spotless. 

Silver slugs-_

Swept aside.

Fresh paint over silver slime. 

Official shoes squeak across polished tiles. 

The estate glows for the cameras.

But 

Silver streak of slugs

“Oi! Slime some more!”

🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌🐌

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 humorous gothic reflection on eternal life, office fatigue, and suspicious ceiling noises.

🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇

Today is Dracula Day. 

I wasn’t aware he had a day, but even Brahm’s great count must travel. 

And show resilience despite Singapore’s extreme tropical heat. 

So here he comes to Singapore, 

For a little satire and colloquialism.

An uncle with a velvet cloak, sweat and smell.

Even creatures of the night must remain steady in the heat.

🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇

SIngapore. 

Land of mist and darkness. 

Tropical fear. 

Or so my mandibles thought.

But–

My black velvet cloak–

Collapsed against my chest.  

The heat seared, even at night.

The moonlight I loved–

Wore yellow HDB fluorescence.  

Not tropical fear. 

Tropical heat. 

🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇

Preserve my gothic dignity.

An absolute must. 

Finally, a coffin. 

At Bukit Brown cemetery. 

Casually creepy. 

It simmered with invitation in the yellow moonlight. 

My fangs clicked beside the fan sealed within. 

Still, too hot. 

My black velvet cloak–

Black Armani velvet–

Collapsed against my back.

🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇

I finally managed to pop the coffin lid,

With that dreaded velvet cloak

Still collapsed against my back. 

I boarded the MRT —

With perspiration-drowned denizens

And their cloaks

Stuck against their backs. 

🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇

I shunned the daylight streaming from the windows–

Moisture collapsing further. 

And below–

Office workers. 

In their velvet cloaks. 

Marching beneath the searing sky.

A boy.

“Eh, Uncle. 

You smelly ah.”

🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇

So  I wore 

The same black velvet cloak

Collapsed against my back

And stepped forth 

Beneath the searing sky. 

Watching velvet-clad minions

Perform their duties

Glowing in the sun. 

They wear velvet here. 

So can Count Dracula. 

To a coffee shop for iced kopi.

With the same little boy.

He showed me around. 

Not so smelly, ah.

🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇🕯️🦇

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 things do not need to enter the house. They were already there.

🌧️🐕🕯️🚪🌑🐾📺🌧️ Tap. Tap. Tap. 🖤

Rain tolls steadily against the windows.

Threading their edges with wet, crafty steps.

The television glows

Murmuring the news softly,

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

On the wall.

Eyes.

Blank   

Fixed.

🌧️🐕🕯️🚪🌑🐾📺🌧️ Tap. Tap. Tap. 🖤

My nervous laughs fill the room

As I turn the web page.

Sounds of soft souls fill the air. 

Their heads turn together.

In synced silence.

To the wall

Breathing stories and shadows

Tap.

Tap 

Tap.

They do not turn away.

🌧️🐕🕯️🚪🌑🐾📺🌧️ Tap. Tap. Tap. 🖤

My head turns away.

Flickering lights with the steady drone

Of the computer..

Grr.

Grr.

Grr.

Growls. Pressed. Low.

Something patient lurks.

Beneath the plaster.

🌧️🐕🕯️🚪🌑🐾📺🌧️ Tap. Tap. Tap. 🖤

Morning light trickles slowly through the windows.

The hounds heads finally turn.

No marks.  No scratches.

The terrors travel.

Threads across the paint. 

They return at dusk.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

She’s.

Blank.

Fixed.

🌧️🐕🕯️🚪🌑🐾📺🌧️ Tap. Tap. Tap. 🖤

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 Titanic met its fate at the turn of the twentieth century, the victim of an iceberg. 

Ice that could have been avoided. 

If their egos hadn’t overcome caution.

If only they had spoken of it. 

🚢🌊🚢🌊🚢🌊

Chandeliers glowed with fiery charm, 

Crystals danced with soft violin notes

White gloves drifted with shining sterling silver

Gold light warmed the leathered lounge. 

No one spoke of ice.

🚢🌊🚢🌊🚢🌊

Wind blows gently through cold corridors,

The Atlantic stretched, stoically still.

A steward grimaced beside the window.

The night air drew a sharp breath.

But no one spoke of ice. 

🚢🌊🚢🌊🚢🌊

Card games played with sleight of hand

Untamed laughter filled the air. 

But waltzing couples footsetps slow

A martini trembles, spills, with none to spare.

Still, no one spoke of ice.

🚢🌊🚢🌊🚢🌊

Then, white gloves strewn across the floor

The chandeliers still burining bright. 

Hurrying footsteps, and muffled cries

The sea entered the windows, hungry.

No one could speak of ice. 

🚢🌊🚢🌊🚢🌊

Original poem for the birth of the Titanic this May. 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 a portrait of a bygone era. Encased in noir. Vintage furnishing. Brass lamps on rosewood tables. Rain tapped windows with soft impatience. Dust hovered over the projector beam in its own version of swing pop. The screen flickered, screening old memories. The walls were classic 1950s movie magic: Desi Arnaz, Humphrey Bogart.

And Vincent Price in a pose Brahm Stoker would be proud of.

A little silky terrier rested nearby while David Simms prepared to screen a black-and-white Price film he had newly restored. The classic movie buff insisted that the performances in old films were real; modern movies flashed too much and said too little. 

Lauren Bacall appeared on screen. Elegant. Poised. 

The silhouette of her side profile, clearly outlined, cigarette in hand.

Somehow —

Close. Too close.

A line, in mimicked quill script, flashed across the screen, catching David’s attention. 

“Some performances never end. “

🎬🖤🎬🖤🎬🖤🎬🖤

The audio cut off. With a flick of his nimble fingers, David adjusted the reel on the antiquated device, and it came to life with a slow, loud crank.

****

He rewound the scene.

The projector clicked, as if it had moving feet. 

Click. Click.

The familiar velvet vintage furniture. The brass lamps on the rosewood table.

Lauren appeared on screen, this time, facing the camera.

David blinked. 

Probably faulty restoration.

He rewound the tape again. 

Click. Click.

Then, his eye caught sight of a new glass on the table. 

He blinked again.

The dialogue between the characters had also changed slightly. 

Now slower.

To match the slowed speed of the characters. 

Desi Arnaz, Humphrey Bogart. 

Vincent Price. With-

Moving eyes. 

🎬🖤🎬🖤🎬🖤🎬🖤

The room seemed to  shrink. David almost felt–

Enshrouded. 

Static crawled slowly through the old speakers. 

Lauren’s eyes followed. And turned.

To look straight into the camera. 

Her eyes fixed on his, refusing to leave.

Not loud. 

Not hyperbolic.

Not monstrous.

But-

Aware. 

David’s little dog backed away from the television with a frantic whimper.

She spoke, in quiet, almost dulcet tones. 

“You’ve seen me before.”

Lauren’s smile widened. 

Widened. 

He froze.

🎬🖤🎬🖤🎬🖤🎬🖤

The film reel reached its end. The theatre that watched Lauren Bacall slowly emptied. 

The silence lingered longer than the film. The room seemed oddly–

Discolored.

Only the old projector still buzzed with life. 

The grandfather’s clock in the corner of the living room.

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

Leaving a lone figure seated quietly at the back. 

In the plush, velvet armchair.

The screen cuts an inch closer. 

Closer.

David saw the figure clearly. 

In the audience.

Black and white.

One that David knew intimately. 

Almost too–

intimately.

🎬🖤🎬🖤🎬🖤🎬🖤

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.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 marks the Festival of Lemuria, the ancient Roman Festival for restless spirits of the dead. 

In ancient Rome, the month of May bore the burdened whispers of the dead.

During the festival of Lemuria, families performed quiet rituals to drive away restless spirits believed to return to the homes they once knew. Black beans were tossed over the shoulder. Mirrors were covered. Doors were sealed before midnight.

Some believed the rites offered the living protection

Others believed they merely delayed the knocking.

Some doors are closed to refuse entry to the dead. Others are closed to keep guilt in.

🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️

Silence wraps as night unfolds,

Squeaks on wooden beams. 

Soft. Salt. Stays.

In porcelain bowls

From Aunt Claudia.

Its door stays closed.

🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️

Black beans tossed past the shoulder. 

Mirrors shrouded in white muslin.

Soft. Salt. Stays.

Soft. Salt Stays.

Windows secured, safely bolted–

Before midnight.

🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️

The squeaks sharpen soundly.

Wet footprints, across the floor.

Its form in the mirrors.

Face. Fear. Flash.

Face. Fear. Flash.

Aunt Claudia’s black beans.

Stop.

🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️

The Face.

Uncle Julius’.

From returning, year after year.

From reminding her

That she forgot

His cries.

🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️

Softer squeaks on wooden beams.

Soft. Salt. Stays.

Soft. Salt. Stays.

From Aunt Claudia. 

The door now open.

🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️ 🌒 🕯️

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.