The Whispering Mirror
The old mansion at the end of the street wasn't haunted by screams or rattling chains. It was haunted by silence.
Elias, a young photographer who loved capturing abandoned places, entered the house at sunset. The air was thick with the smell of old paper and damp wood. As he reached the master bedroom, he saw it—a massive, silver-rimmed mirror leaning against the wall. It was the only thing in the house without a speck of dust on it.
Curious, Elias stepped closer. He saw his own reflection: the camera around his neck, his tired eyes, and his messy hair. But then, he noticed something impossible.
In the reflection, the door behind him was open. Elias froze. He turned around slowly. The door was shut tight, bolted from the inside just as he had left it. Heart pounding, he looked back at the mirror. In the glass world, a pale, thin hand was now reaching out from the "open" door.
He didn't run. Something about the hand felt... desperate, not dangerous. A soft whisper echoed, not in the room, but inside his head: "Help me remember."
Elias realized the ghost wasn't a monster; it was a memory that had lost its way. He took a photo of the mirror. The flash lit up the room for a split second. When the light faded, the mirror was covered in decades of dust, and the reflection showed only the shut door.
The weight in the room vanished. Elias left the house feeling that some ghosts don't want to hurt us—they just don't want to be forgotten.