thriller
Echoes in the Mirror
Aryan always got this creepy feeling whenever he looked in a mirror, not because he was superstitious or anything. It was more like his reflection was staring back just a little too long, you know? He wasn’t into ghosts or spirits or any of that stuff. But seriously, every time he caught his own reflection, something felt off. It was like the mirror knew something about him that he didn’t even get. Growing up in a small town, life was pretty normal for Aryan. But when he moved to Mumbai for his freelance video editing gig, things just felt… different. The crazy busy streets, the packed markets, the bright lights – it was all just too much. The apartment he rented wasn’t much to look at, but it was his own space. Cheap, old, but it worked. The landlord was a weird dude – super quiet, pale, and he never said anything about the apartment’s history. All he’d say was, "Someone left suddenly." Aryan didn’t push it. The apartment was in a perfect spot for his work, and that’s all that mattered to him. But that mirror – man, that damn mirror was a problem from the second he walked in. It was huge, like floor-to-ceiling, taking up most of one wall in the bedroom. And it wasn’t just any mirror – it was way too clear. It almost felt like it was alive, like it was a window to some world Aryan didn’t belong in. The first night, Aryan threw a sheet over it. He hated how it just stared back at him, reflecting not just his face, but this strange emptiness that made him feel uneasy. He crashed with the sheet still there, thinking he’d forget all about it. But every morning, the sheet was gone, just lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. He told himself it was the draft – just an old building thing. But the more it happened, the more it freaked him out. Days went by. Little things started to change. He first noticed it one morning while brushing his teeth in front of the mirror. His reflection copied him, like it should. Right hand up to brush. Reflection did the same. But then, this weird thing happened.
By THOUGHT LIKE A PROabout a year ago in Fiction
The Monkey and the Fish
Animals in the wild simply live their life from their instincts that have been developed as adaptations to their environment. People are a product of their environment and experience society, culture, and all that. As tempting or easy as it may be to try to interpret everyone in our own image, we should recall that there is an important upshot to this monkey-and-fish fable: projecting our values and needs onto others without much real attempt to understand what they need, and in the context of which they need it can do damage, often well beyond our reckoning.
By Rohitha Lankaabout a year ago in Fiction
"A Mother's Embrace". AI-Generated.
The first time Aarav remembered his mother’s embrace, he was four years old, trembling from a nightmare. The house was silent except for the ticking clock and his muffled sobs. He had dreamt of monsters, of falling, of being left behind. She came, gently wrapping her arms around him, humming a tune he would later recognize as a lullaby from her childhood. He didn’t understand the words, but the warmth and calm they carried never left him. His mother, Meera, wasn’t a woman of many words. She had never given grand speeches about life or success. Her wisdom came in simpler forms—like the packed lunch that never missed a day, the way she rubbed mustard oil into his scalp every Sunday, or how she stood silently behind him at every school event, clapping softly. They lived in a modest house on the edge of town. Aarav's father had died in a factory accident when Aarav was just two. Meera, barely in her twenties then, chose not to remarry, though many suggested she should. Instead, she worked—first as a domestic helper, later as a tailor. Her fingers became calloused from hours of stitching, but they remained gentle when they tucked the blanket around Aarav every night. Aarav didn’t realize the weight of her sacrifices until much later. As a teenager, he often felt embarrassed by their small home, by his mother’s plain sarees, by the lunchboxes filled with the same potato curry and roti. He’d see classmates arrive in cars, carrying branded backpacks, and feel a pang of resentment. Meera never asked him why he grew quiet during those years. She simply stayed close, hovering like a steady flame in a dark room. One winter, when Aarav was fifteen, he fell terribly ill. Pneumonia. For days, he lay feverish and restless. Meera didn’t sleep—she sat beside him, wiping his forehead, feeding him spoonfuls of warm broth, whispering stories of gods and warriors. When he finally awoke clearly, weak but alert, she was there, her head resting on the edge of his bed, eyes swollen from exhaustion but smiling. It was in college that things began to change. Aarav earned a scholarship, moved to the city, and slowly built a world far from the narrow lanes of his hometown. He called Meera once a week, sometimes less, always promising to visit but never quite finding the time. She never complained. Years passed. Aarav got a job, then promotions, then a car, a house, a life filled with dinner meetings and deadlines. Through it all, Meera remained the same. Every festival, she sent him a box filled with homemade sweets and a handwritten letter. Her handwriting had started to shake, but her words were steady: Eat well. Sleep more. I’m proud of you. One day, in the middle of a meeting, he got a call from a neighbor. Meera had fallen. A minor stroke, the doctors said. She was stable, but weak. The guilt hit him like a wave. He flew home the next morning, walking into a house that seemed smaller than he remembered. The walls had faded, the stitching machine was covered in dust. And in the middle of it all, lay Meera—frail, smiling, eyes lighting up at the sight of him. “You came,” she whispered, reaching out. He knelt beside her, overwhelmed by memories—the oil massages, the warm rotis, the lullabies, the embrace in the dark. Everything he was, everything he had become, was woven from her strength. “I’m sorry I stayed away,” he said, voice cracking. She touched his cheek. “You did well, beta. That’s all I ever wanted.” He stayed by her side for two weeks, relearning rhythms he had forgotten—the sound of birds in the morning, the hum of the sewing machine when she used to work, the peace of shared silence. He promised to return more often. This time, he kept that promise. Meera never asked for much. When she passed away three years later, the only thing she left behind was a diary—pages filled with thoughts never spoken. In it, Aarav found entries written across decades. “Aarav’s first day at school. He didn’t cry. I did.” “Got a raise. Bought him a new book. He finished it in one night.” “He didn’t look back when he boarded the bus. He’s growing.” “I miss him.” The last entry read: “I hope he knows. Even in silence, I’ve always been with him.” Aarav closed the diary with trembling hands. Today, years later, Aarav is a father himself. Sometimes, when his own daughter wakes up from a nightmare, he hums the same lullaby his mother once did. He doesn’t know all the words, but the warmth remains. In the quiet of night, when the world fades, he often feels it again—her presence, her strength. A mother’s embrace never really ends.
By "TaleAlchemy"about a year ago in Fiction
The Man Who Killed an Elephant with His Elbow
Bandara, who killed an elephant with his elbow There is no doubt that you have heard countless stories about martial arts in different countries of the world and the fighters who mastered those skills. In addition, they even create wonderful films based on those stories. With that, they were able to tell the world about the fighting exploits of the ancient fighters of their country.
By Rohitha Lankaabout a year ago in Fiction
