Every night at exactly 11:47 PM, Mira’s phone buzzed.
No caller ID.
No number.
Just a text.
“I’m still here.”
The first time it happened, she thought it was a prank. Maybe a wrong number. She replied:
“Who is this?”
No response.
The next night, 11:47 PM.
“I’m still here.”
Her stomach tightened. She changed her passwords. Blocked unknown numbers. Turned off notifications.
Didn’t matter.
Every night.
11:47 PM.
“I’m still here.”
After a week, she went to the police. They checked her phone records.
“No messages were received at those times,” the officer said gently. “Are you sure you’re not dreaming them?”
“I’m not imagining this!” Mira snapped. “I can see them!”
But when she showed him her phone… the screen was empty.
That night, she stayed awake, staring at her phone as the clock ticked closer to 11:47.
11:46.
Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.
11:47.
The screen lit up.
Unknown Sender:
“I’m still here.”
Her hands shook as she typed back:
“Where are you? What do you want?”
The reply came instantly.
“In the room.”
Mira froze.
She lived alone.
Very slowly, she turned her head, scanning her dark bedroom. Closet door closed. Window locked. Bedroom door slightly open, hallway beyond it empty.
Her phone buzzed again.
“Closer than that.”
She scrambled out of bed, flicked on the lights, checked under the bed, in the closet, behind the curtains.
Nothing.
Breathing fast, she backed toward the mirror across the room.
Her phone buzzed one last time.
“You haven’t recognized me yet?”
Her reflection stared back at her—pale, terrified, eyes wide.
Then the reflection smiled.
Mira didn’t.
Her phone slipped from her fingers as a final message appeared on the floor beside it.
“I’m still here. I never left the day you did.”
And in the mirror, the other Mira slowly raised a hand and pressed it against the glass from the inside.
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