They found me.
I don't know how. I never used my real name on the site. No metadata, no linked accounts. I even routed it through a VPN and encrypted the domain with three layers of proxy.
But the email came anyway.
**Subject: She is not yours alone.**
No greeting. No signature. Just a location, a date, a time.
A small café in Katong, Singapore. 4:00 p.m. Friday.
Something told me I had to go. Not fear. Not obligation. But recognition.
They had seen her too.
---
The café was nearly empty when I arrived. Dim lighting. Hanging plants. Low jazz playing over hidden speakers. I ordered a kopi hitam and sat by the window, watching raindrops trail down the glass like veins.
At exactly 4:00 p.m., someone sat across from me.
A woman. Late thirties. Short hair with streaks of grey. Eyes that didn't blink too often. She placed a small linen pouch on the table and didn't speak.
"You wrote the email?" I asked.
She nodded once.
"You saw her too?"
"'Saw'?" she repeated, with a tired smile. "No. I was her. Once."
I didn't understand.
She opened the pouch.
Inside was a fragment of glass. Thick. Edged with carved floral patterns. The back coated in faded gold leaf. A mirror shard. Old.
"This," she said, "came from the original shrine. The one they buried. The one they sealed."
"How did you get it?"
"I didn't," she said. "It came to me. In a dream. And when I woke up, it was in my bed."
My stomach twisted.
"Then you know what she wants."
"More than that," she said softly. "I know what she needs."
She slid the shard across the table to me.
I didn't want to touch it. But my hand moved anyway.
The moment my fingers brushed it, a shock ran through my spine. Not pain. Not electricity. A memory.
A temple. Fire. A girl screaming beneath collapsing stone.
I flinched and pulled away.
"What do I do with it?"
She stood up. Her chair barely made a sound.
"She's already chosen you," she said. "You have two options now. Keep reflecting her story. Or become her next voice."
And she left.
Just like that.
I stared down at the shard.
This wasn't just a haunting. Not anymore.
She was a story trying to survive. A memory refusing erasure.
A presence passed from one witness to the next.
And now, I held a piece of her prison.
That night, I brought the shard home.
And I placed it beneath my pillow.
And waited to dream.