The story should have ended there.
But stories tied to spirits don't end. They echo.
And echoes, I've learned, travel far.
Two weeks after I published the last post, a reader from Berlin sent me a photo.
It showed a mirror hanging in an old cathedral bathroom—but in the corner, almost hidden in the fog, was a figure in white. Barefoot. Still.
> *"I thought it was just my mind,"* she wrote. *"Until your story found me."*
More messages followed.
Toronto. Manila. Kyoto. Accra.
All the same.
A white figure in reflections.
Eyes hidden. Presence undeniable.
She was moving.
Or maybe she was remembering.
I tried to track it—make sense of it. But every time I tried to map her appearances, the data twisted. Photos corrupted. Links disappeared. Screens glitched for a second too long.
She didn't want a pattern.
She wanted a presence.
---
One night, my phone vibrated at 2:44 a.m.
No caller ID. No sound. Just a vibration that wouldn't stop.
When I picked it up, the screen was black.
Then a single word appeared:
> **"Look."**
No sender. No app. Just that.
I turned on the front camera.
And for a split second, I didn't see myself.
I saw the courtyard again. The circle of priests. The sealing.
Then her face. Close. Clear.
Not angry.
Not sad.
Inviting.
I dropped the phone. It kept vibrating.
I turned it off. Removed the battery. Left it outside my apartment.
It rang anyway.
---
So I began writing again.
Not just my story. But theirs.
The stories others had sent. The visions they described. I posted them anonymously, one each day.
And each time I did, my dreams got lighter.
Not safer.
But understood.
Because that's all she ever wanted.
To be remembered.
To be seen.
Not as a ghost. Not as a threat.
As a warning.
We buried too much.
We silenced too many.
We looked away when we should have listened.
She is what happens when the unseen refuses to stay silent.
---
If you see her, don't run.
Don't scream.
Just listen.
And if her voice speaks through your mirror, your screen, your dream—
Write it down.
Tell someone.
And share this.
Because she is no longer bound to Bali.
The mirror has cracked.
And through those cracks, her memory spreads.
One reflection at a time.
---
**Follow for Chapter 12. And if your mirror flickers tonight, know this: you're not the only one she's watching.**
---
✅ **If this story gave you chills, made you curious, or kept you reading—let me know.**
Leave a **rating** and drop a **comment** below.
The more voices I hear, the louder the echo becomes.
And I'll continue with the **next chapter**—but only if you want to see what happens next.
👁️✨