A.K was once the most sought-after ghostwriter in the industry — the invisible hand behind bestselling authors and viral stories.
Until one scandal ruined everything. Her name became a curse, her career shattered, and her words, her only escape, betrayed her.

Then one night, an email arrives.
The sender’s name makes her heart stop.
Because the man who sent it… died three years ago.

He knows her secrets.
The kind she buried beneath grief, guilt, and silence.
The kind no one alive should ever know, including the truth about a friend’s mysterious death she’s long tried to forget.

Now he wants her to tell his story.
Each chapter she writes pulls her deeper into his world, a world that blurs the lines between reality and insanity.
Voices whisper through her drafts, shadows linger where light should be, and the haunting question remains:

Is she writing his story… or rewriting her own?

The story was never his alone.
Even dead men write too… they just need the right writer to bleed for them.

Have you ever stared at yourself long enough that your reflection stopped feeling like you?


It's a strange kind of horror, not the scream-in-the-dark kind, but the quiet dread of realizing the face in the mirror blinks half a second too late.


I wasn't even doing anything dramatic. I was brushing my teeth, humming something tuneless, when I looked up and saw… hesitation.Like my reflection was thinking.


I froze, toothpaste foaming in my mouth, and for a second, I was sure I saw the faintest smile on its lips, before mine moved.


I spat into the sink and backed away.It sounds ridiculous now, saying it out loud. But I wasn't scared yet. I was curious. Because I swear, in that instant, I felt watched.


Not by someone in the mirror.By the me inside it.


I tried to distract myself with work. I opened my laptop, hoping to lose myself in an unfinished sentence.But there was a file I didn't recognize sitting on the desktop.


"If you want to see who's really watching, turn off the lights."


I stared at it for a full minute. My fingers hovered above the keyboard, then pulled back like the keys were hot.


I don't know why I did it, but I turned off the lights.


The laptop screen glowed in the dark, a pale rectangle of light, and in it, my reflection stared back, only this time, it was smiling again.


Then, as if reacting to my fear, the words on the screen began to shift.


I whispered, "Who are you?"And the cursor blinked. Once. Twice.


"You already know. I am what's left when the truth looks back."


The lights flickered. I shut the laptop.


But when I turned around, the mirror above the desk had fogged up, like someone had breathed against it.


And there, written in the mist, were four words that froze me to the bone.


I didn't move for a long time. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the typewriter.When I finally dared to look again, the message had vanished.


But I could still see the faint outline of letters beneath the glass — like they were written from the other side.


Chapter 9 - THE WATCHER IN THE MIRROR