In the heart of Kolkata, tucked between a forgotten alley and a crumbling bookstore, stood an old mirror shop. It was run by an eccentric man known only as Mr. Ghosh, who rarely spoke and never aged. Locals whispered that his mirrors were cursed, that people who stared into them too long saw things not meant for this world.
Anirban, a 28-year-old software engineer, didn’t believe in such nonsense. He had logic, algorithms, and Python scripts on his side. But when his younger sister, Tuhina, went missing after visiting the mirror shop, something inside him cracked. The last footage on CCTV showed her entering the shop. She never came out.
Police investigations went nowhere. Mr. Ghosh said she “left in a different way.” That was it. No one could press him further. Desperate, Anirban decided to investigate the shop himself.
It was raining when he stepped inside.
The shop was dim, filled with tall antique mirrors, each framed intricately with bronze, silver, or wood. They lined the walls like silent sentinels. Mr. Ghosh was polishing a square mirror with unusual symbols carved into its edges. He looked up.
“Looking for someone, aren’t you?” the old man asked, voice dry like crumpled paper.
Anirban tried to steady his voice. “My sister. Tuhina. She came here two weeks ago.”
Mr. Ghosh nodded slowly. “She crossed over.”
Anirban scoffed, though his stomach twisted. “Crossed over?”
“To the mirror side. A parallel world.”
Anirban laughed, but it came out hollow. “There’s no such thing.”
Mr. Ghosh stepped aside, revealing a mirror that shimmered oddly, as if reflecting not this room, but a different one—same layout, different colors, and in the reflection, no Mr. Ghosh, no Anirban—only dust, decay, and silence.
“This mirror,” Mr. Ghosh said, “is a gateway. Every mirror in this shop is. But this one—this is the only one that opens both ways.”
“And Tuhina?” Anirban whispered.
“She’s trapped there. But the passage closes every lunar cycle. Tonight’s the last chance.”
Against every shred of logic, Anirban stepped forward. Mr. Ghosh handed him a brass pendant with a clock inside.
“This will tick only in your world. You have one hour. Beyond that, you stay there. Forever.”
The moment Anirban stepped through, he felt like falling through thick air. The world he landed in looked like Kolkata—but without people. Empty cars, flickering traffic lights, and silence. Chilling, unbroken silence.
He ran through the streets calling Tuhina’s name. No answer. As he passed buildings, he realized this city mirrored his own exactly, but aged, broken, haunted.
And then he heard a voice. Faint. Crying.
He followed it to their childhood home. It stood eerily intact. He pushed the door open. Inside, everything was identical—except the photos on the walls. In every one, his face was crossed out with red ink.
He climbed to the attic. The crying grew louder.
He found her there—Tuhina, pale and thinner, holding a cracked mirror in her hands.
“Anirban?” she gasped. “Is it really you?”
He nodded and rushed to her.
“I was trying to find you,” she sobbed. “I saw a boy in the mirror… I thought he needed help. And then, I couldn’t get back.”
He took her hand. “We have to go. Now.”
They ran through the streets, retracing his steps, but the portal mirror was gone. In its place stood a tall version of Mr. Ghosh—except younger, with black eyes that seemed to devour light.
“You are not welcome here,” the figure said.
Anirban stood firm. “We’re going home.”
“You broke the balance,” the mirror-figure hissed. “Only one can leave now.”
“What do you mean?”
“One soul in. One soul out.”
Anirban looked at the ticking pendant. Ten minutes left.
He turned to Tuhina. “You’re going.”
“No,” she cried. “Not without you.”
He shook his head. “I came to save you. That’s what I’ll do.”
He shoved the pendant into her hand, whispered, “Go,” and pushed her through the mirror that flickered to life for a split second.
Tuhina fell back into the real world, gasping, landing hard on the mirror shop’s floor.
Mr. Ghosh caught her and smiled. “He made the right choice.”
Tears streamed down her face. “Send me back. Please. I can’t leave him there!”
Mr. Ghosh shook his head slowly. “The mirror is closed. The balance is kept.”
Behind him, the shimmering mirror went dark.
In the silent parallel world, Anirban stood alone, the streets empty once more.
But as he turned, he saw a flicker in another mirror—his reflection, smiling back.
Except… it wasn’t him.
It was darker, twisted… watching.
And it whispered, “Welcome home.”
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The mirror never lies. It only shows the world we fear to see.
