LIMINA

Transitional Phases

"We didn't summon you here for nothing."

"A Catholic, a Jew, a Shinto priest, even a Zoroastrian... And now me? This is absurd."

"They are merely hoping for a miracle. But you—you can offer something more. A rational explanation. The kind of insight the rest of us have missed."

"But I’m no exorcist."

"You’re a metaphysicist."

"Technically… no."

The old observatory in Tokyo, a subterranean lab last used in 1948, had once again opened its doors to guests. Four individuals had gathered there today. After a brief exchange, the LED-lit corridor’s door creaked open, and two figures stepped inside.

Inside, four religious representatives already sat in solemn silence, each absorbed in their own ritual. A Catholic, a Jew, a Shintoist, and a Zoroastrian—each positioned around a circular disc, deep in their respective prayers.

The newcomers quietly took their places at the opposite end of the circle. One of them spoke:

"Per your request, we’ve prepared the lab—the lighting, the layout. I trust the conditions are adequate for the ritual."

"Adequate enough that we can’t even tell who’s sitting across from us," the second added dryly.

"Allow me to introduce: Mr. Shamsiddin, member of the Turanian Academy of Sciences, Uzbekistan. He’s here to observe the phenomenon from a scientific perspective."

No response followed. The participants remained immersed in their rites.

Shamsiddin, slightly uncomfortable with the formal introduction, focused on the figures seated around the circle. He could already identify the Catholic exorcist without difficulty. His gaze drifted with curiosity to the others. Suddenly, one of them—seated directly opposite—clapped twice.

Shintoist, Shamsiddin noted silently.

Two remained. They faced each other across the circle. The one to Shamsiddin’s right murmured something softly. The other sat with eyes closed, in complete silence.

What is he whispering? Louder… just a little louder…

In the dimly lit room, it was easier to rely on hearing. Gradually, the whispered words began to form.

Drawing on his historical and religious background, Shamsiddin carefully echoed what he heard:

"Azi drafso dareni Anxra-Mainyu. Aena o razig rah fradaram…"

What does that mean? Loyal servant of Ahriman… I summon him through the unseen passage…?

The room's aura had grown heavier, darker. Religious rituals intertwined—colliding belief systems pulling reality in opposite directions. The very atmosphere bent beneath their weight, turning dense, distorted… unsettling.

Shamsiddin was not alone. Accompanying him was Yuichi Aizawa, the senior custodian of the very observatory in which they now stood. It was Yuichi who, acting on a special commission, had assembled this unlikely gathering of exorcists.

Wasting no time, Yuichi addressed the group:

"First and foremost, I extend my deepest gratitude to each of you for making the time to be here. Today, in a break from tradition, we will also be giving space to the perspective of science—through the man who stands among us now. I urge you not to see this as a slight to your faiths or rites. His presence reflects a desire for a broader, more unified approach—a way of seeing what perhaps we have all missed. Your thoughts and practices remain equally valued."

He turned to Shamsiddin.

"Now, if you will, I’d like to show you what you came to see. This way—there’s a boy, just a little apart from the circle."

"Of course. No problem, Mr. Aizawa."

They approached a young boy sitting on a plain wooden bench. The child appeared frozen, his gaze fixed, unblinking, on a single point in the void. After a minute of silent observation, Shamsiddin saw no use in trying to "read" the boy any further. He looked away and turned to Yuichi.

"What do these… exorcists say?"

"They claim the boy is currently in a state of astral projection. According to them, his soul has been… taken."

Yuichi hesitated. "Forgive the fantastical phrasing. I know such words can be difficult for a man of science."

"It’s fine," Shamsiddin replied calmly.

He thought for a moment, then asked:

"Forgive my bluntness, but if the doctors of Tokyo could do nothing for him and now you've handed him over to ritualists, then I'm afraid I may be out of place here."

"I understand... But the matter concerns a soul trapped in the astral realm. These four religious practitioners have all tried—and failed—to retrieve it. Perhaps, with your scientific method, you can reestablish a connection between his body and spirit?"

"What do you want me to do, hold a ritual myself?" Shamsiddin chuckled. "Just kidding, Mr. Aizawa. Don't take it seriously. I’ll do my best. Let’s return to the circle."

They made their way back, but Shamsiddin did not sit down. He remained standing, choosing instead to face them all directly.

"This is a first for me. If I try to perform a ritual too, the poor boy might end up worse off..."

His words drew every eye in the room toward him.

"I'm not here to dissect your rituals or beliefs. The only thing that matters is the boy on that bench. I promise to focus solely on him. Please, Mr. Aizawa—turn the lights up a bit."

Though his tone was measured and concerned, to some it rang with a sharp edge, almost mocking. To those seated—monks sworn to their faiths—it bordered on irreverence.

The Jew could tolerate the Zoroastrian. The Catholic might accept the Shinto priest. But Shamsiddin's words? They sounded like accusations straight from the parchment of a medieval inquisition.

No one felt this more acutely than Aizawa, who lowered his gaze after each of Shamsiddin’s remarks, visibly uneasy. With a quick gesture, he signaled for the lights to brighten slightly.

Then, at last, the silence cracked.

The rabbi spoke. His voice was soft, but laced with tension:

"There is one question I cannot silence, and I hope you’ll forgive my candor… I am not a radical believer, but what we are discussing here is a soul. And you, sir—pardon me—you seem to be a man of science. How can we speak of faith with you?"

Silence returned.

Shamsiddin raised his head and met the rabbi’s gaze directly. His voice was not loud, but every word rang with clarity and calm conviction—each syllable struck like a chisel to stone.

“I’ll explain. I am not an atheist.”

A pause.

“I am a Muslim.”

The final words dropped into the room like a hammer on cold steel.

Every man present—the Catholic, the Zoroastrian, the Shinto priest, the Jew—turned their eyes toward Shamsiddin in unison. In their expressions was surprise, disbelief… and, for a fleeting second, something deeper. Doubt—not in him, but in themselves.

Shamsiddin said nothing more. He let the silence breathe. It was his silence—deliberate, steady. His gaze moved slowly, methodically across each face, as if to peel back their layers. And then, gently, he smiled—directly at the Shinto priest.

For the first time, the priest spoke. There was no resentment in his tone, no sanctimony—only genuine curiosity.

“If you are Muslim,” he asked, “why do you stand here not as the fifth representative of faith?”

Shamsiddin gave a small laugh. This time, his smile bloomed fully—an expression that held irony, resolve… and perhaps, the faint glimmer of hope.

“It’s quite simple. Islam does not partake in this kind of farce. That is why I’m not here as a man of religion—but as a man of science.”

A hush settled over the room again. But this silence was different.

The monks’ eyes had changed. Their wariness had faded. They were beginning to listen. And perhaps, in that moment, they stopped seeing Shamsiddin as an outsider…

And started to see him as a rival in spirit.

Or perhaps—just perhaps—as an ally.

************************************

That evening, the lecture hall buzzed with a soft, academic restlessness. Most of the students looked drained from the day’s classes—but Shamsiddin’s lectures were different. Here, dialogue reigned. Debate thrived. And every now and then, something deeper stirred—an inner upheaval.

Tonight would be no exception.

Standing at the front of the hall, Shamsiddin asked, as he always did, a simple question that weighed heavy:

“So—any questions?”

From the back row came a hesitant but bold voice:

“Do you believe in the afterlife?”

Shamsiddin paused. The question seemed to strike a hidden chord. He looked out across the room—almost every student now leaned in, silently watching. This wasn’t just a question. It was a challenge. A duel in disguise.

He gave a faint smile.

“A mediocre question,” he said softly. “But perhaps… one of the most necessary.”

Taking a few steps forward, he moved closer to the center of the hall. His gaze fell on a girl by the window. She was staring at him with a quiet, searching expression. He turned to her directly:

“And you? Do you believe?”

The girl hesitated, then nodded.

“I do.”

Shamsiddin dipped his head slightly.

“So do I.”

The words held no sermon, no persuasion—only a quiet conviction, spoken with a careful tone.

Then another voice rang out. A familiar face—one of his regular contrarians, a student who never let a lecture pass without tension.

“Then doesn’t that make you… not secular?”

A ripple of tension passed through the room. The word “secular” had landed like a stone in still water—accusatory, almost loaded.

Shamsiddin smiled, giving a small shrug. His reply was warm:

“Maybe it does. Who’s to say?”

But the student pressed on:

“You advocate for secularism. Doesn’t that imply you reject all religion? All belief systems?”

Shamsiddin straightened slightly. A hint of steel appeared in his expression.

“Secularism doesn’t mean ‘believing in nothing.’ It means that state and public institutions remain independent of religious influence. It means freedom.”

The student smirked.

“Then why call yourself a secular person if you say you believe in Allah?”

Shamsiddin reached into his pocket and pulled out a small card. He didn’t fidget with it, didn’t show it—just held it, while looking the student directly in the eye.

“I support a secular society. And a secular society respects all faiths. I don’t impose my belief on anyone. Now let me ask you—

Must a secular person believe in nothing at all?”

A ripple of murmurs passed through the hall.

The discussion had shifted—rising to a different plane.

In the piercing quiet, Shamsiddin spoke again:

“I want to ask something of you. What are the questions we forgot to ask today?

Not about secularism…

But about humanity. About the search for the self. About personal responsibility.”

He turned once more to the student who had challenged him:

“Right now, it feels as though you're interrogating me. Perhaps you'd like to come up here? Take my place? Tell us—what is it you’re really looking for in these questions?”

With a slight smile, he gestured invitingly toward the podium.

“Dear student, please continue this chain of inquiry.

And by the way—atheists are usually quite good at this sort of thing,” he added with warm irony. “Just a joke, of course!”

“Alright… ahem…” the student cleared his throat. “Tell me—have you ever wondered: Why Islam?”

“I have. That’s a question I had to ask myself.”

“And? Why Islam, specifically? Are the other religions inferior?”

“That’s a slightly provocative question… but fair enough—students are allowed such things.

Even if I had been raised within a different faith, after studying all religions, I would still have chosen Islam.”

“Why? Do you think religion is inherited genetically from one’s parents?”

“First—no, I don’t.

And second—my answer ends here.”

A low wave of noise stirred through the audience.

Whispers turned into voices: “Why? What does that mean?”

“If you weren’t going to finish the answer,” the student called out, frustrated, “then why invite me up here in the first place? You could’ve just said not to ask that kind of question!”

“That is secularism,” Shamsiddin said with a smile.

“No one has the right to stop you from asking. Secularism is what gave you the freedom to stand at this podium today.

“And likewise—I, standing here now, do not have the right to answer your question in a way that might cause any of you to doubt your own beliefs.

Secularism does not permit that. Do you see?”

At that moment, the bell rang for break.

“I suppose it’s time we all step down from the podium of secularism—

and return to our personal lives.

See you next time!

And bring even more questions.”

After his lectures, Shamsiddin would usually return home for a brief rest.

He wasn’t the kind of man “tied” to his house—

But for an afternoon nap, home was ideal.

Each day, he spent about two hours dozing on the couch in his kitchen.

Then—he would walk. Sometimes through the streets.

Sometimes, he would simply sit in the garden, watching the stream drift beneath the trees’ shadows.

But when evening came, he didn’t head to a library.

He went to a café with a library.

Not the library itself.

Because libraries were too quiet.

Too sterile.

Every step felt watched. Every breath, measured.

And that silence? It made it easier to fall asleep than to read.

But in the café, he could rest a cup of coffee on his knee and turn the pages of a book to the background hum of life:

— “Cappuccino ready?” a waitress’s voice would call.

Laughter would bubble from a nearby table.

This—this was life.

For Shamsiddin, that delicate balance—between the hush of thought and the pulse of the world—was the perfect atmosphere for deep reading.

More often than not, he sat in the same corner.

The one by the window, beneath the old shelf stacked with forgotten grammar books no one ever touched.

Only one lamp lit the space, casting a warm, faintly amber glow.

Here, he read books on all manner of subjects.

He never restricted himself to one field—anything that sparked curiosity could become his evening pursuit.

But if he stumbled upon a vague hypothesis or a questionable claim, he wouldn’t let it go. He would dig until he hit bedrock.

For instance, once he read that the first standing army in history was created by Sargon I.

He didn’t stop at the article.

He traced the claim to museums in Iraq, searching for the source.

Where had this “fact” even come from? The inscriptions from that era were fragmentary at best—

And it wasn’t as if Sargon had carved somewhere: “I was the first.”

Tonight, the café-library was steeped in the rich aroma of bitter, steaming coffee.

Behind the bar stood Diyor, as always—headphones in, nodding to soft background music as he prepared a fresh pour-over.

And Shamsiddin, nestled in his usual corner beneath the grammar shelf, was once again chasing down another incomplete fact.

But this time, his gaze drifted a little farther—

To where the barista in a slightly crooked black beanie was busy behind the counter.

Shamsiddin slowly approached.

“Diyor,” he said, “you know, on some of those ancient stones, there are inscriptions that can only be seen at sunrise.

That’s why they read them in museums only at dawn.”

(Of course, it was a joke.)

Diyor looked at him with a curious grin.

His smile was kind—untainted by sarcasm.

“Really? So now we’re supposed to believe everything we see at sunrise, huh, Shamsiddin-aka?”

“No,” Shamsiddin replied, “to disbelieve, you must read.

And reread.

The same line.

The same word.”

Diyor fell quiet for a moment, thinking.

Then he slid a glass across the counter.

“Here. Double espresso.

Careful not to fall asleep.

Next time, I’ll prove to you that I know how to analyze which words are used in which kinds of articles.”

Shamsiddin raised an eyebrow, amused.

“What articles?”

Diyor reached under the counter and pulled out two thick academic journals.

“Archaeology. And Historical Source Criticism.

Some are translated into other languages.

I’ve read them already… back when I had the time.”

For the first time, Shamsiddin looked at him differently.

Now, he no longer saw just a barista.

He saw someone with that same inner flame—

A hunger for knowledge.

“You’re a strange one, Diyor,” Shamsiddin said, squinting slightly. “You know, maybe one day we should debate.”

“About what?” Diyor asked.

“About facts.

Real ones.

About the difference between stone… and story.”

Diyor winked.

“But only in your favorite corner.

Under that warm little lamp.

With the scent of books and coffee in the air.”

********************************************

10:40 PM.

In a dimly lit night café, a group of teenage girls had gathered. This wasn’t just another casual hangout—it was a ritual. A symbolic “last night” before graduation. A farewell to childhood.

By the bar, where the lights were warm and the sounds muffled, two friends sat in hushed, tense conversation.

“Try it,” one whispered.

“No. You’re insane. I want no part in this nonsense.”

“If you go through with it, I’ll gift you a night at that hotel you love so much. Breakfast included. Spa, too.”

“I don’t need it. They won’t let me stay overnight somewhere else anyway.”

“Leave that to me. We’ll be there together. If I’m with you, your parents won’t mind.”

“What’s in it for you?”

“I’m just... curious. Don’t you see? It’s the adrenaline.”

“You want me to perform the ritual, but you won’t tell me what you get out of it.”

“Sweet Shirin. Every girl needs one moment in her youth. Something strange. Forbidden. But thrilling. I look around and all I hear is don’t do this, don’t do that. What are we becoming? Machines?”

“Remember that psychology class? About taboos in society?”

“Yeah… religious, political, social…”

“Exactly. Religious taboos.”

“You mean the ritual?”

“Bingo.”

“Breaking a religious taboo… you’re saying it’s exciting?”

“And strangely satisfying.”

“Why me though? Why did you pick me for this?”

“I know it sounds selfish. But I’ll make it worth your while. I just… I want to see it.

We don’t believe in mythology, right?

But no one can forbid us from experiencing it.

To understand—through action.”

“You’re really offering me a luxury hotel night? With all the perks?”

“Absolutely. Just one step.”

“And in return, I’m supposed to do… this insane thing?”

“Exactly. Bingo.”

Shirin stopped at the café’s bathroom door.

Her friend, Asal, stood behind her, gently urging her forward.

“If you don’t go in—nothing will happen.

But if you do… it’ll be something we’ll remember for the rest of our lives.”

Beneath a flickering light barely pushing back the darkness, Shirin stepped inside.

She didn’t go into a stall. Instead, she stood at the sink, facing a clean mirror.

At first, she pretended to wash her hands under the warm water. But soon, she simply stared at the mirror.

It was fogged slightly, with a dull ring light overhead, trembling ever so faintly.

Shirin switched on her phone’s flashlight and unfolded a slip of paper.

“Blue Baby, Blue Baby, blood on the wall,

Blue Baby, Blue Baby, I killed you all…”

She whispered it three times.

Then she turned off the flashlight, clasped her hands behind her back—cradling the air as if rocking an invisible baby—and closed her eyes.

Darkness.

Silence.

Breath.

And then—

A faint, rasping sob… almost like a baby crying.

Shirin opened her eyes.

In the mirror—it was still her.

But… not quite.

Her reflection had no eyes.

Her hair looked soaked, as if wet with cold water.

And her shoulders—were heavy. Tangibly heavy.

Something… or someone was resting in her arms.

She tried to turn around—

but her neck was frozen.

The mirror showed movement—

something eyeless shifting behind her.

Her arms… were growing heavier by the second.

And then—

breathing.

Not hers.

A foreign breath. Low. Right beside her ear.

Like a sleeping infant.

But beneath that—a second breath.

Rancid. Cold.

As if stench and frost were whispering together.

And then—

cutting through the silence like a dagger:

“Da mihi puerum! Aliter eum in lucem edas!”

What?!

The words crashed inside her mind.

The voice repeated—

“Da mi-hi pu-e-rum… A-li-ter eum in lu-cem edaaaaas…”

She didn’t know the language,

but each syllable struck her chest like a hammer.

“Da… mihi… puerum…”

The words echoed through the tiled walls,

as if the command rippled through the whole café.

Suddenly, she understood—

It wasn’t a baby crying.

It was searching.

Someone—something—was looking for a child.

“Da mihi puerum…”

Now the voice roared, like it rose from a chasm.

Shirin squeezed her eyes shut. Her breath became erratic.

She opened her mouth to scream—

but no sound came out.

And then—

SHAAAAAK!

The door burst open.

Light exploded into the room.

At the threshold—stood Asal, frozen in shock.

“Shirin! What the hell is happening?!”

The light wavered for a moment, trembling in the air…

Then, slowly—everything returned to normal.

The mirror was just a mirror.

The glass—clean, unblemished.

The breathing—gone.

The infant’s crying—vanished.

Only Shirin…

She stood motionless,

eyes locked on her reflection.

Her hands were still clasped behind her back,

her spine hunched, as if something was still clinging to her.

Asal stepped in slowly.

“Hey… Are you okay? I was calling you. I tried to open the door… you didn’t answer.”

Shirin turned to her.

Her eyes—wide and wild.

Her lips—bloodless.

As though something had drained the life from her.

“My arms…”

she whispered hoarsely.

“They’re about to… fall off…”

***************************************

Morning light, dust-dappled and faded, seeped in through the window—dim, almost colorless.

6:23 AM.

As usual, Shamsiddin awoke to a dull ache in his left shoulder.

It had been that way since childhood.

He slowly rose from bed.

The night still lingered in the room—the sun had yet to fully break through, and the lines on the ceiling looked like cryptic script.

He’d grown used to tracing them every morning.

What else could he do?

Even in his thirties, he was still alone.

And by now, he had made his peace with it.

On his way to the kitchen, his mind was blank—except for one clear goal:

A strong cup of coffee.

And a soft sweet roll.

Nothing else mattered.

He flicked the kettle on.

His eyes wandered to a small potted plant on the windowsill—he’d forgotten to water it yesterday.

He gently picked it up and poured in some water.

Two tiny bubbles rose up from the soil.

Strange, he thought.

It felt as if the plant had responded.

“Let today be a good day,” he whispered to himself.

He placed yesterday’s soft bakery bun in the microwave, then turned his attention to the coffee.

The beans slowly began to bloom, releasing that rich, bitter scent into the air.

He loved that smell.

Mornings like this were reason enough to wake up, he thought.

When the coffee was ready, he sat at the table and stared out the window at the calm morning sky.

This time of year, the air was still cool. But the sunlight always rose with quiet splendor.

Suddenly, a notification lit up his phone.

He glanced at it with indifference—an ad.

Another followed:

“It’s your friend’s birthday today.”

He let out a small grunt, rubbed his temples as he always did.

Bit into the roll.

Took a careful sip of coffee.

The warm liquid—like some elixir of life—slid down, not just waking his body, but stirring something deeper.

He took another sip.

This time, he closed his eyes.

And for just a few seconds—everything was in its place.

This simple morning.

This bun.

This cup of coffee.

It all felt… right.

As if every piece of the world had clicked into the exact time and place it was meant to.

But then—

The phone again.

Not a notification.

A regular SMS.

He looked at the screen.

“I saw it. Do you remember?”

Unknown number.

He blinked.

Then smirked to himself.

“Spam. Probably some new mobile game promo.”

But… he didn’t delete the message.

There was something about the last phrase—“Do you remember?”

The way it was written… it felt personal.

Heavy. Slow. Almost intimate.

Still, he wasn’t about to waste his precious morning energy chasing shadows.

Mornings should be light—

or the day becomes a burden.

Better to wash up, get dressed, and step outside.

The café was waiting.

His favorite corner.

With the warm lamp.

And the scent of freshly brewed coffee.

“Let’s start the day light,” he mumbled, spraying on his favorite cologne with its subtle, sweet aroma. Then he headed to his car.

A cozy, white BMW E39 from the late ‘90s — his own personal classic.

With a gentle twist of the key, the engine came to life, and right on cue, so did the stereo.

Up next — a melody from an old series. One he knew by heart.

A series from his youth that once left a mark.

The very first note — and something stirred in his chest.

A quiet jolt of nostalgia.

The music flowed like blood through his veins:

“Voy a desnudar tu alma beso a beso hasta sentir.

Que tu cuerpo se derrama como lluvia sobre mí…

Por el borde de tu espalda voy a dibujar mi amor…

Sin ocultar esta pasión…”

“Ah, what a powerful song, with chords like these…” he smiled.

“Even the title was beautiful. The early 2000s really were something else…”

The car rolled smoothly out of the parking lot.

The city was only just beginning to wake up —

but inside him, the music was already alive.

“Cuando seas mía ya lo verás, baby…

Todas las noches serán buenas para hacerte el amor…”

At that line, he couldn’t help himself — he turned up the volume.

This wasn’t just a song.

It was the song from “Cuando seas mía”.

More than a soundtrack — it was an anthem.

Of emotions. Of memories.

Of those long-gone days when love still felt endless.

As the chorus swelled, he entered a tunnel.

Orange light swept across the hood like honey.

The beat of the music pulsed in his chest.

“Cuando seas mía, en cada sueño voy a estar yo.

Te voy a hacer buscar, pedir, rogar mi calor…”

The car sped forward.

And him?

He just smiled.

Alive — in the middle of memory.

And the music.

******************************************

Soft jazz drifted through the café — barely audible, yet exquisitely beautiful. Bookshelves lined the walls, stretching quietly into the corners. The air was rich with the scent of old pages and freshly brewed coffee. Gentle lights hung from the ceiling, spilling warm, slightly milky hues across the tables.

At one of them sat a group of friends. In the center — Diyor, surrounded by familiar faces. Their gathering was simple, without fuss, balloons, or fanfare. Everything felt warm. Genuine.

On the table: a chocolate cake, a few neatly unwrapped gifts — among them, something that looked like bed linen, a soft toy with little ears poking out, and a small envelope.

Asal leaned toward Diyor with a gentle smile.

"Another year, another chance... and you're still the same poetic Viking with golden hands, Diyor."

Laughter rippled around the table. Diyor raised his hands in mock surrender.

"No poetry tonight — take a break. Gifts first!" he teased.

At that moment, the bell above the café door chimed softly.

A sharp, cold morning light broke through the windows — brighter than any lamp in the room. Everyone instinctively turned toward the entrance.

There stood Shamsiddin.

As always — calm, unhurried.

In one hand, a small box wrapped in white paper. A light winter scarf draped over his shoulder. His gaze didn’t go straight to Diyor — it swept first across the walls, the paintings, the reflections in glass — and only then settled on the table.

"Shall we honor memory and time properly tonight?" he said, his tone carrying a quiet reverence.

Diyor stood up, smiling warmly.

"Come on, you can't go a day without slipping into poetry. Get over here, old friend. Your seat’s been waiting."

Shamsiddin smirked and pulled the small box from his coat.

He placed it on the table with a soft thud.

"This isn’t a gift. It’s a reminder. You don’t have to open it. But if you do… maybe you’ll remember that night."

All eyes turned to the box.

Small, about the size of an A5 notebook, with a handwritten note taped to the lid:

“12:08 — the time the door opened.”

Silence settled over the table.

When Diyor opened the box, the first thing he saw was a booklet.

Beside it — a deep red ticket. It looked like an invitation.

"A ticket..?"

"Read first."

"Hmm… ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time’… Is this... a theatre ticket? For two?"

"Yes. You’ve got someone to go with.

Why celebrate a birthday in noise… when you can celebrate in meaning?"

Diyor gently picked up the ticket and turned it over.

Evening. 7:00 PM. Two seats.

He ran his fingers along the edge, as though feeling something alive beneath the paper, and murmured:

"Hmm..."

Shamsiddin added, quietly — but with a distinct, weighted tone:

"Don’t read the booklet ahead of time.

It’s meant to be understood after the play.

So you’ll know why some people in life leave… silently."

Diyor raised an eyebrow, then shifted his gaze from the ticket to Shamsiddin.

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

He stepped forward and hugged him — simply, like one friend greeting another.

But in that embrace, there was something deeper than gratitude.

Something understood.

Without words.

"You know, Shamsiddin, a true gift can only come from a true person."

Diyor’s voice was warm, almost playful.

"You yourself are a gift — from the way you carry yourself to the way you wear your scent. Even your cologne is flawless."

Shamsiddin gave a knowing smile.

"Yes. I know. I know everything."

Then, with a touch more gravity:

"But sometimes... reminders can become gifts too."

After their embrace, Diyor gently held Shamsiddin by both elbows and leaned in slightly.

"Why don’t you stay?

This day… it might just turn into a moment of unexpected joy."

Shamsiddin smiled again — this time, a faint shadow of seriousness crossed his eyes.

"That wasn't in the plan for today."

"You know I write schedules two weeks in advance."

"And some things… even two years ahead."

The soft glow of the hanging lamps spread tenderly across the wooden shelves lining the walls.

The tables — mismatched. The chairs — each with their own past.

The people — from different stories.

But in all their eyes: the same thing.

A search for light.

Amid the ticking of the wall clock and the gentle hum of jazz, Norah Jones’s voice floated in the air:

“Come away with me and we’ll kiss on a mountaintop…”

The friends seated beside Diyor — Nargiza, Salim, and Ilyos — received the gift with quiet reverence.

Salim gave a slight nod of approval.

Nargiza tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and whispered softly:

"Such a thoughtful gift.

You can tell — it comes from the heart."

Ilyos opened his mouth to crack a joke… but when his eyes met Shamsiddin’s, he swallowed the words.

To disturb this kind of silence felt almost… profane.

As always, Shamsiddin buried his feelings in the depth of a strong cup of coffee.

But somewhere inside — at the very edge of his heart — a trace of warmth lingered.

Stillness.

A silence filled with light.

*********************************************

The girl quickened her pace along the pedestrian path toward the café, her expression dazed and uncertain.

With every step, it felt as though the voice

“Da… mihi… puerum…”

was echoing louder and more urgently in her ears.

The café door — glass, with a small sign that read Open.

Inside — a soft glow radiated from a single amber desk lamp.

The door opened.

She stepped in — as if she compressed into a single, gasping breath —

like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over her.

Yes, that feeling — the sudden shock of cold and paralysis —

that was what engulfed Shirin.

Inside, silence reigned.

As though someone had just turned off an air raid siren.

The atmosphere was… surprisingly warm. Almost magical.

If outside, night had already fallen — inside, it felt like a gentle afternoon lingered on.

The scent of coffee floated in the air like the breath of a kind old wizard.

After such a shock, everything around her seemed slightly blurred, the colors — faded.

But most importantly — the voice was gone.

And this silence? It was worth everything.

Most of the tables were empty.

Only in the far back corner, near the bookshelf, someone was quietly writing in a notebook.

Shirin closed the door behind her.

The night remained outside the glass.

She made her way to the counter.

The barista, catching a glimpse of her face, understood immediately — without a word —

and began preparing a hot cocoa.

Shirin, like someone just returned from the edge of another world, cast a lost gaze around the café.

In the half-light and softened glow, one corner — near the books — suddenly seemed brighter. Almost radiant.

As if life itself was pouring out from that one spot.

Without thinking, she moved toward it.

“Excuse me… would you mind if I sat here?”

The man, immersed in his reading, lingered a moment on the page,

then slowly looked up —

into her pale, nearly lifeless face.

“As long as you’re not a journalist or a blogger — sit down,” he said, reserved, almost cold.

Shirin didn’t wait for him to finish —

as if she’d already sensed the meaning of his words.

She quickly pulled out the chair and settled in.

Shamsiddin, pulled prematurely from his inner world, studied her closely.

Just as Shirin sank into the chair, the first soft notes of a piano began to play.

Someone near the bar was playing Joe Hisaishi’s “Summer.”

The melody felt like an invitation — the start of something.

“You’re not one of my students… am I right?” he asked, squinting slightly.

Shirin hesitated, then replied quickly:

“Yes.”

But that wasn’t the answer she wanted to give.

How could such a small, hollow word possibly fit this moment, this stranger?

This small “lie” — fleeting as it was — didn’t suit someone with a soul this full.

“Don’t lie,” he said sharply.

“I’m sorry, Professor. But you’re… a professor?” Shirin replied, a thread of doubt in her voice.

Shamsiddin looked at her intently — his deep, black gaze seemed to search her face, as if trying to understand: "Who is she, really?"

And she didn’t stall — something in her whispered that it was now or never.

How long would this fragile calm last? Who knew?

“I’ve been on edge for almost a day. Haven’t slept at all.”

“Wow…” he responded plainly.

His first thought: A modern, subtle form of begging — but done politely.

“And then?” he asked.

Shirin faltered. What could she say?

That she’d lied like a stranger off the street?

That she hears voices?

That she’s asking for help?

That she doesn’t even know his name?

“Do you have a psychological disorder…?”

Normally, those words would sting — a subtle accusation.

But to Shirin… they brought relief.

Something inside her began to melt.

She even smiled — as if she’d finally spoken a long-unsaid truth.

“No more, then. I understand.” he said coldly.

He didn’t press further.

He simply placed the book back on the shelf, stood, and headed toward the bar.

“You’re right. I’m mentally ill. Not recently — since that night.”

Shamsiddin slowed his steps sharply.

“People don’t go insane in a single night…” he said, calmly.

“Then do a ritual!” she burst out, desperate.

He stopped. His face became stunningly neutral.

“If you did perform a ritual,” he said, after a pause,

“then, judging by your current state, all I can say is this:

Calm down.

Turn to those closest to you.

Take sleep medication under medical supervision.

Rest for two or three days.

And most importantly — forget it all.

Scrub it out of your memory.”

With every word, Shirin’s heart slowly began to thaw.

“May I speak with you… a little longer? Please?”

The word please sounded like cotton soaked in tears — soft and sorrowful.

Outside, night had fully settled.

Streetlights lit up the little houses and cafés with a gentle, golden glow.

“So you really performed the ritual… mindlessly? Without thinking of the consequences?”

“Yes. Completely.”

“Blue Baby... is a terrible game.”

“Professor,” she said softly, “I already told you what’s hurting me. It’s been nearly a day since that night... I’ve been wandering like a startled animal. I can’t go home.

Every light I see feels like salvation.

But the moment I close my eyes — she comes.”

“She?”

“This woman. Terrifying. Cold. Primal.

She whispers in some... awful language.”

“What exactly?” Shamsiddin’s voice sharpened. “What did she say? Surely you remember at least some of the words?”

“No... the language was strange. Definitely not one they teach in school.”

“Did it sound like Arabic?”

“Absolutely not. No. Not even close.”

“Then good. That rules out Aramaic.”

“Professor… you're scaring me with your... analyses. Are you saying these things even have their own language? Is that a thing now?”

“I haven’t said anything definitively.”

“I can try… I’ll try to recall a phrase. Something. Anything…”

“Please.”

“Let me see... um... no… mihi… puero… puero...”

With each word, Shamsiddin’s gaze sharpened. His eyes narrowed, hardening — as if he were carving the syllables into stone.

“Lucem… edas…”

“Stop!” he snapped suddenly.

Shirin, who had been reciting the words in a kind of trance, froze and stared at him.

“It’s Latin,” he said quietly.

“And...? Is that bad?”

“Who knows?” he muttered, with a smirk laced in irony.

“Are you mocking me?”

“No. If I link the phrases logically… and considering the whole ritual was that Blue Baby nonsense, then most likely — that eerie woman said something like:

‘Da mihi puerum. Aut id in lucem proferre debes.’”

“Yes... I think that’s close. But... I’m not sure.”

“I can’t repeat what she said. I didn’t hear her.

You did.

I’m only making educated guesses.”

“Professor…”

Shirin wanted to ask more. But the answer already looming in her mind frightened her.

She kept looking at Shamsiddin — her eyes full of silent questions —

until suddenly, from her emerald eyes, tears began to spill.

She abruptly turned away, covering her nose with the back of her hand, squeezed her eyes shut — and burst into tears.

Shamsiddin calmly handed her a napkin from the table.

“What are you afraid of? Take it.”

“Professor!... What did she want from me?”

“Do you really want to know what those words mean?”

That sentence struck Shirin like yet another blow. She didn’t reply. She simply curled into herself and continued crying in silence.

“Fine. I won’t tell you. Don’t worry.”

Shamsiddin deliberately switched to the informal “you.” In moments like this, one must step closer to a stranger — just enough to offer the warmth of presence. It worked: Shirin’s sobs gradually softened.

“No, professor. Please — tell me!”

“Alright. But I’m warning you now:

Once you know too much — wonder dies.”

Those words calmed her a little.

Shamsiddin walked to the window, half-shielded by blinds, and gently drew them down.

Then he gestured to the pianist — who had been quietly playing a reflective melody in the background — and with a look known only to close souls, asked for something a bit more light-hearted. The pianist caught the signal immediately and shifted the mood.

In an instant, the atmosphere in the café subtly transformed: playful notes spilled into the space like trickles of spring water.

Shamsiddin nodded, then turned back to Shirin.

“When you summon the ‘Blue Baby’ — his mother comes too.

She demands that you give him to her… or lay him on the ground.

If you refuse… she warns you: you must give birth to him.”

“Give birth?.. What does that mean?…”

Shirin locked her eyes on that word, clinging to it like a ledge.

Shamsiddin paused for a moment. Then slowly closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath.

Shirin sensed it — something dense filling the silence, almost unbearable in its weight.

She whispered again, barely audible:

“Give... birth… What does that mean?”

Shamsiddin stepped closer — not in space, but in sense. His voice dropped, but each phrase carried a strange gravity, like words that strike not the mind — but feeling:

“That baby… most often, it doesn’t live in flesh.

It doesn’t ask for a body.

It asks for… a passage.

A door.”

Shirin looked him in the eyes.

There was no terror in her gaze — only silence, filled with understanding and pain.

“Or…” Shamsiddin continued, “if you don’t let him into our world — he’ll drag you into his.”

“How… how does that happen?”

Shamsiddin turned his gaze toward the window, where daylight filtered through the blinds.

Outside, passersby bustled by — hurrying, living, caught in their little worlds.

The light was soft, the world seemed whole.

But Shamsiddin knew: sometimes, the line between worlds isn’t a door — but merely a glance.

“Every child — even one not born of this world — longs for a mother.

One who listens, who calls, yet rejects him.”

“He waits for salvation from you — and when he doesn’t receive it…

you become the target of his rage.”

Shirin bit her lip, and the tears returned, spilling down her cheeks.

“I didn’t mean to summon him… it was just a game… I didn’t believe…”

Shamsiddin gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Jinn, spirits, beings from beyond — they don’t wait for belief.

They wait for a call.

And you… you called.”

“Now, the door must be closed.”

Shirin lowered her gaze. Suddenly, she felt it — deep within, somewhere in the hollow of her stomach — a cold shadow moved, as if someone had crept through her inner corridors.

Shamsiddin noticed.

He tore a page from his notebook, took out a pen, and began to draw.

“This symbol will help seal the door. It won’t remain on your body — but it will stay in your mind.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because it’s memory.

And from now on, you will no longer be the one who merely brushed against that door.”

Shirin looked at the paper. On it was a strange — yet oddly familiar — drawing.

A symbol that stirred something in her memory.

“If it feels familiar, don’t be afraid.

This is a symbol many people see in dreams.

Especially your generation — Gen Z.”

“I…”

“Don’t jump ahead. It’s not about the symbol.

We’re talking about what comes next.”

“What… what should I do?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Do you want a clear answer?”

“Yes!”

“I don’t know.”

He said it so calmly, as if stating, “That’s your problem, not mine.”

“But… professor!” she almost whispered in despair. “If you don’t know, then who does?”

“Why do you think I know anything at all?”

“Why?… Because you’re not like the others.

That’s why I sat next to you.

That’s why you…” — her voice broke, she couldn’t finish.

“Was it the voice that told you that?”

“No! I don’t understand what it says.

But the moment I walked into this café… from one corner — the one where you were sitting — I felt something different.

As I came closer, the noise faded, the fear subsided.

In these past 24 hours, only near you have I felt peace.

Maybe… you’re the reason why?”

Shamsiddin, meanwhile, turned to the barista and made a gesture indicating he wanted another coffee.

“Please bring some coffee. Looks like I’m staying a while.”

Shirin fell silent.

But she didn’t take her eyes off Shamsiddin’s face — as if hoping that salvation might emerge from those calm, measured features.

“What’s your name?”

“Shirin.”

“Shirin, do you live a religious life?”

“No, I’m a perfectly modern, secular person.”

“I see. People like you most often encounter the paranormal.”

“Why?”

“They react more emotionally.

And sometimes they can’t recover from it at all.”

“Is this… a punishment?”

“In a way — yes.

It’s a kind of retribution for performing that ritual.”

“But I—”

“Wait. I understand.

You didn’t mean to. It’s clear.”

Just then, the barista approached and set a cup of coffee in front of her, and another in front of Shamsiddin.

Alongside them — a small plate with a selection of sweets.

In this café, such a gesture was a sign of respect: anyone who sat long enough with Shamsiddin always received a dessert.

“What if I start to pray… could that stop everything?”

“Let’s approach this logically.

You want to turn to prayer to make all of this go away?”

“Yes.”

“That’s where the mistake lies.

Prayer is not a ritual.”

“But I didn’t say it was a ritual…”

“You treat it like one,” said Shamsiddin.

“You performed one ritual in the bathroom — and now you’re searching for another to cancel it out.

But prayer… isn’t a transaction. It isn’t a tool.

It’s the acknowledgment of your servitude before the Creator,

a surrender into peace.

Prayer makes no demands.

And if you pray with conditions, hoping to receive something — I’m afraid it won’t work.”

“But I really do want to be free of this horror!”

“You should see a doctor.”

“And what if they can’t help me?”

“That’s entirely possible.

Medicine still doesn’t fully understand the nature of spiritual trauma.

Worst case — they might send you to a psychiatric ward.”

He paused briefly.

“But… you’re not hearing any voices right now, are you?”

“Exactly.”

“Then you’re already starting to move past it.

The main thing — don’t give it meaning.

Don’t take it seriously.

Ignore it!”

“And what if, after we finish talking and I walk out that door, it all starts again?”

“And what do you propose? Want to move in with me?”

Shirin suddenly laughed.

“Why are you laughing?”

Shirin had been through so much in the past 24 hours that now, with the fear finally retreating, she felt almost free.

She even laughed — loudly, sincerely, as if for the first time in ages.

"I think you're feeling much better already," Shamsiddin said with a slight nod. "You can safely go home now."

Shirin paused in thought. In her mind, everything felt… complete.

Maybe it really was time to leave?

But part of her wanted to stay — just to sit next to Shamsiddin a little longer, talk, listen.

"Do you like sitting in cafés with books?"

Shirin was now so relaxed that she began to take in the space: the interior, the music, the warmth.

Shamsiddin, on the other hand, clearly hadn’t expected such a sudden shift.

It now seemed to him that Shirin had stayed longer than she should have — his heavy, lingering gaze made that plain.

As Shirin’s eyes wandered across the bookshelves, she met his stare — and froze for a moment.

"Maybe… it’s time for you to go?" he suddenly said, sharply.

"But… I find you interesting."

"Listen — I’m not drinking another drop of coffee tonight. I need to go home. I need sleep."

"You know… I have an idea!"

"If it involves a nightclub — forget it!"

"How did you know I was going to say that?!" Shirin burst out.

"We’ve been talking for almost an hour.

People who talk too much become predictable fast."

"You’re a p-psycho… psych–"

She stumbled over the word.

Shamsiddin just looked at her with an ironic smile, not lifting a finger to help.

"You know what I mean! Why won’t you say it?"

"Because it’s too funny to interrupt."

"Hey!" Shirin huffed.

But Shamsiddin didn’t react. He had already begun gathering his things.

"What if I bring my friend here?"

"No. Absolutely not. Especially not that friend — the one who started all this mess. Under no circumstances!"

"But then you’d hear the other side..."

"I don’t want to hear any more sides.

I’m leaving!"

It would’ve been impolite to insist further.

So Shirin, accepting the moment, rose to her feet.

Her shoulders drooped just slightly, but a warmth of gratitude still lingered on her face.

She took a step toward Shamsiddin.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“For meeting me when I was trapped between two doors.

For being there when everything felt lost.

For the light in the darkness.

For this hour — thank you.”

Shamsiddin, just as he reached for the last item on the table, froze.

Her words, wrapped in quiet sincerity, had clearly touched him.

He searched for what to say.

“First of all — thank you.

For your persistence.

Most people in your place would’ve given up.

Young people these days are… fragile. Some take their own lives over a breakup.

But you — you fought. You searched for a way out.

To stand before someone who wants to live — that’s an honor.”

He paused. Even his footsteps fell quiet.

“The fact that I’m walking away from you — that’s another matter.

But you… you did everything right.

Because you have the right to live. The right to fight.

It’s just… we met in that precise place where possibilities run out.

It’s a shame…

That’s why I’m so eager to rest.

Maybe…”

The word “maybe” came so slowly, so heavily, it struck something in Shirin’s chest.

Her eyes widened, her heart skipped.

“Maybe…?” she whispered.

“Tomorrow. Noon.”

“Here? I mean… wait — maybe somewhere else?”

“No, you wait. Right here. Not somewhere.”

“I only meant that—”

“I know. I understood perfectly.”

“You did? What did you understand?” Shirin asked, hoping for a final soft line, something poetic and tender from the professor.

But Shamsiddin squinted mischievously at the clock above the bar, widened his eyes with a fox-like grin, and snapped:

“Don’t even think about asking for my number!”

The words were cold and abrupt, like a door slammed shut.

He turned, said nothing more, and headed for the exit.

Shirin, trying to contain the whirlwind inside her, let out a loud breath — the very breath she’d been holding in… but now laced with anger.

“You’re arrogant and shameless, professor!”

Shamsiddin, hand already on the door, turned his head and tossed over his shoulder:

“Wouldn’t recommend sleeping here tonight.

There’s a church nearby that rings its bells all night long…

Wouldn’t want your heart to burst.”

And with that, he stepped out.

But that final comment — sharp, theatrical, and laced with irony — triggered a storm inside Shirin.

Because deep down… she knew:

Churches don’t ring bells at night.

Dark, anxious images flooded her mind —

like a still from an old horror film: silhouettes of vampires, blood-red eyes glowing in the night...

“Professor… was that a joke?

Professor…?” she called out, her voice trembling like a live coal in the wind.

But the door no longer answered.

Only silence.

****************************************

“I thought you’d never come back to your senses!”

“Well, aside from those strange 24 hours, I do feel better. The fear is almost gone.”

Shirin and Asal sat in the Junior Suite of a three-star hotel.

Night dragged on slowly in the room’s cozy, slightly dim silence.

Outside the window, city lights flickered softly — blurred by the patterned glass grilles, they painted faint reflections on the walls.

Asal lay on her pillow, watching her friend’s face carefully, as if searching for traces of that panic from the night before.

“I was so scared when I saw you like that,” she whispered.

“I thought I’d lost the friend I myself brought into that cursed apartment…”

Shirin gave a faint smile. There was a hint of relief in it — but also a flicker of unease that hadn't left.

“I thought it was just a game. A stupid ritual.

But… something was really there.”

“Yeah… That stain on the wall… the shards by the window…

And… that feeling…”

“You know, Asal… when I spoke to Shamsiddin, for the first time in all of this — I felt relief.

His cold tone, his calmness — it irritated me sometimes, sure, but maybe that’s exactly what I needed.”

“He’s a professor, right?” Asal smirked.

“Didn’t even want to share his number, I heard.”

“He really shouldn’t have mentioned that church…

Later I found out — there’s no church nearby.

But he said it just to scare me...”

Asal sighed, reaching for her phone resting on the pillow, scrolling aimlessly.

“You know, Asal…” Shirin began,

“Before all this, I felt like there was nothing interesting left in life.

And now… now I feel every second.

Maybe it’s like how people feel when they’re told they don’t have much time left.”

“Oh stop it! Listen to yourself! Who told you you’re going to die?

You just had a few drinks, got scared — and that’s it. Period! End of discussion! Shut up! Got it? Shut up!”

“Asal…”

“Shut up, I said!

If you’re going to start with this nonsense again — better say nothing at all.”

“…Fine.”

“Saying you’re savoring every second of life…” Asal mocked her.

“Then at least savor this one! We’re here, just like when we were eighteen — staying in a hotel room together!

And you don’t even appreciate it! But you go on about enjoying every second…

You’ve just turned into some kind of philosopher, that’s all.”

Shirin burst out laughing.

Asal glared at her with mock anger, but inside — something clenched.

Her own heartbeat felt irregular.

A creeping unease slipped into her chest.

“Fine. Alright. Have it your way,” Shirin said in a low voice.

“I was drunk. Now I’m sober. I just…

I’ll go down for a minute.”

“Where?”

“To the reception desk. I wanted to ask for a charger. Mine’s broken.

Can you believe — I’ve got a bunch of phones, but not one with a decent Type-C adapter.”

Asal shrugged:

“Fine. But make it quick.”

Shirin adjusted her hair, grabbed her phone, and left the room.

The hotel corridor was silent.

The numbers above the elevator ticked slowly.

Once she reached the lobby, she walked confidently toward the reception desk.

“Excuse me,” she addressed the young receptionist.

“Do you have a Type-C charger? Just for a few minutes.”

The girl gave her a warm smile.

“Of course. Just a moment, please.”

While the employee rummaged through a drawer, Shirin glanced around.

In the corner, near the entrance, a sign softly glowed:

“TOILET – Guests Only.”

“I didn’t notice there was a restroom here before…” she thought.

“I’ll just pop in quickly and be out,” she decided.

She turned and walked toward the door beneath the sign.

The lights inside flicked on automatically.

Bright white. Sterile, smooth tiled walls.

Water still dripped from the showerhead. But the stall was empty.

Suddenly...

...something shifted in the large mirror on the back wall.

Shirin spun around.

No one.

She held her breath.

Her heart began to race.

Her eyes stared—unblinking—but nothing moved.

Yet when she looked into the mirror again...

...SHE WAS THERE.

It was her.

And… not her.

Black hair. Delicate features. Glasses.

But a drop of blood ran down one cheek.

In the reflection stood another Shirin.

But she wasn’t mimicking her.

She stood completely still and… slowly tilted her head to the side.

Her eyes — crimson red.

Shirin instinctively stepped back.

The reflection did not follow.

Instead — it stepped forward.

With that step, the glasses slid from her face and hit the tiles with a muffled clink.

Shirin wanted to scream — but her voice was gone.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Breathing became difficult.

Her heartbeat didn’t throb from within — it echoed from outside, as if pulsing in the very air around her.

And then — she felt IT.

That same shadow.

The one that had gripped her heart in the café the day before.

Only now, it wasn’t in the mirror.

Not behind her.

It was inside.

As if it had been hidden behind the restroom walls all along,

it no longer concealed itself — it was watching.

And in that moment, from somewhere behind her, a whisper crawled into her ear:

“You opened it… now you cannot close it.”

Shirin shuddered and spun around.

Nothing.

But out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker —

a blurred, gliding figure slipping past the edge of her vision.

She didn’t have time to see it clearly.

Her body was no longer hers.

Every muscle froze.

Her legs felt fused to the cold tiles.

Breathing — impossible.

Then — pressure.

A weightless, rising pressure blooming inside her abdomen.

As if something was lifting her from within, not by force,

but by invading the very core of her being.

She rose slightly onto her toes — suspended in a state between falling and floating.

Her arms drooped helplessly by her sides.

Her wrists — twisted inward.

Her elbows — contorted unnaturally.

Her eyes — turned utterly black.

They stayed open.

But they saw nothing.

Meanwhile, Asal hadn’t fallen asleep yet.

She sat up abruptly and switched on the light.

Frowning slightly, she looked around the room.

— Shirin? Are you still not back?

No answer.

Clutching her chest, Asal hurried out.

Something inside her stirred — a creeping, primal sense of danger rising like cold air up her spine.

In the side pocket of her bag, her fingers brushed familiar small items —

amulets, knotted strings, double-sided mirrors, tiny colored beads.

Just in case — the sort of things that "never come in handy”… until they do.

Reaching the restroom by the reception, she threw the door open.

What she saw stole her breath.

Shirin stood en pointe, like a ballerina,

but her head was tilted upward toward the bright ceiling light.

Her lips were moving — but no sound escaped them.

There was no life in her eyes.

— Shirin! Oh God…

Asal sprang into action.

She pulled a double mirror from her coat pocket,

angled it toward Shirin beneath the overhead light.

Then — she unraveled the knotted cords,

and placed one end gently into Shirin’s mouth, threading it between her clenched teeth.

She began the ritual —

the first knot undone in a whisper:

“Remain behind my eyes, vanish in silence.

Leave my mind, come out of my body.

You took your child — but not me.”

The knot loosened.

In that very moment, the mirror above the sink shattered —

as if something had broken through from the other side.

Shards flashed, slicing across both their cheeks —

lines of red drawn like warnings.

Shirin’s body — like a cut rope —

collapsed to the tile floor, straight into the glimmering shards.

Her body shook.

Her spine slowly curved backward until her legs touched the floor.

Her breath returned — ragged, but real.

Fingers twitched.

And then —

a heartbeat.

Faint but steady.

Shirin, struggling not to fall, leaned against the wall.

Her breathing deepened.

Her eyes were still clouded —

but life flickered back into them.

Asal wrapped her arms tightly around her.

— Shh... It’s okay now. Everything’s going to be fine. I’ll never leave you alone again…

The ceiling light flickered — went out,

then blinked back on.

And for the briefest instant,

a dark silhouette appeared on the wall beneath the shattered mirror.

A shadow. Barely visible.

Then — it vanished.

But it hadn’t left.

It was hiding.

Waiting.

Silently. Somewhere nearby.

The door had been opened.

Closing it would not be easy.

The room was bright — but cold.

The white paint on the walls was so smooth, so dry,

it didn’t hold life — only sterility.

The old radiator rumbled faintly, as if from another world.

There was no mirror now.

They say, in certain wards, that’s a safety precaution —

so the patient doesn’t harm themselves.

Shirin opened her eyes.

The ceiling — pure white.

Turning her gaze slightly, she noticed an IV drip in the corner.

She tried to move, but her body wouldn’t obey.

Weakness flooded her from within, as though the very essence of exhaustion had taken hold of her.

The door opened softly.

A doctor in a white coat entered, followed by Asal.

Asal’s eyes were red, but her face held a strained smile — barely clinging to composure.

Shirin inhaled.

Each breath wasn’t so much taken as dragged out of her.

She slowly moved her eyes.

The ceiling remained white.

Breathing was hard — but in that breath, there was life.

Asal stood still near the door, her gaze fixed on Shirin.

The smile froze — becoming a tense mask full of worry.

— You… finally woke up, — she whispered.

— No one can explain what happened to you.

— The doctors, to be honest… they’re baffled. You wore them out.

Shirin could hear her.

But her eyes showed no emotion.

No reaction.

She stared toward the slow drip of the IV.

The doctor, checking her temperature and blood pressure, said quietly:

— She suffered some kind of shock. Her pulse weakened, but recovered on its own. No cranial trauma. Physically — she’s healthy. Possibly… it could be described as psychosomatic dissociation. Perhaps.

Then he left, leaving them alone.

Asal slowly stepped closer and gently took Shirin’s hand.

Silence followed.

Only the soft rhythm of dripping fluid filled the room.

And then…

Shirin’s fingers twitched.

Then — with a faint voice:

— She… didn’t leave.

Asal froze.

— What did you say?

— She didn’t leave, — Shirin now looked straight at Asal.

But in her eyes — something foreign.

Not anger.

Not hatred.

But a presence. A consciousness not her own.

As though someone else was looking out from inside.

— Shirin, what are you talking about? Who?

— Her. That woman you played with.

The words… didn’t come from Shirin.

They came from someone else.

A third voice. Unknown to Asal — but achingly familiar to Shirin.

— I warned you to stay away from such rituals...

— Or did we not agree on that?

Shirin recognized the voice.

She tried with all her strength to turn her head — but her body refused to respond.

— Excuse me? — Asal snapped, turning toward the voice.

— You’re not a doctor, are you? A relative?

— We only met yesterday, — replied Shamsiddin, stepping casually into the room.

— But I know what happened.

— So you did find me, — Shirin whispered, tears brimming, her gaze fixed on the white ceiling — sentenced to stillness.

— I was informed. I have a consulting agreement with this hospital.

— I help with certain… paranormal cases. When I heard the details — I knew it was you.

Asal didn’t understand a thing.

She stood in silence, watching the exchange unfold.

Shamsiddin continued:

— You're her friend, right?

— Yes...

— Yesterday, I didn’t want to meet you. And today, exactly what I didn’t want — has happened.

Asal lowered her gaze, narrowing her eyes slightly at Shamsiddin.

— You made a mistake yesterday. And today — you stacked another one on top. A ritual over a ritual.

— I saved her! — Asal protested.

— From what I can tell, you've been dabbling in this sort of thing for a while.

And here’s the result. The untying knot, the mirror… The mirror in the dressing room shattered into splinters — the police can’t explain it.

And Shirin’s current condition — this is the price.

— But she got better! — Asal wouldn’t back down.

— I look at her — and I see: no, she didn’t.

Asal remained frozen, standing in the shadow of confusion.

— Need a simpler explanation? — Shamsiddin offered.

— Yes... — both girls whispered in unison.

— You closed one debt by taking another — but with interest.

And now Shirin is paying it off — not only with her soul, but with her body.

Asal seemed to lose herself. Her gaze darted between Shamsiddin and Shirin.

Shirin still lay motionless, staring at the ceiling — but her eyes... they were no longer hers.

— A debt... — Asal whispered. — I just wanted to help...

— I know, — Shamsiddin said without anger, though his voice was heavy with fatigue.

People always want to help. But sometimes, the wrong kind of help — is worse than a crime.

He examined Shirin closely: her eyes, pupils, pulse.

— She’s stable for now. But it won’t last.

You broke that mirror, didn’t you?

— Yes… it... it cracked on its own... — Asal’s voice trembled.

— You opened it. Mirrors are ancient gateways.

Only that which is stronger than itself dares to look through.

You didn’t banish it. You just... diverted it. Temporarily.

— What do I do now? — Asal asked, her whole body trembling.

Shamsiddin took a long, deep breath.

— Now there's only one way left. We need to close it. Close it the way old mirrors were sealed — with force. Force from within.

And unfortunately... only she can do it. Only if she wants to.

— Professor? — Shirin’s weak voice rose from the bed.

— Yes?

— Will this... end? Yesterday, I thought everything was over. But now... I feel trapped.

Shirin broke into tears. She couldn’t move her head, or her limbs — only the tears rolled down her cheeks, and her pain echoed like in a sealed chamber.

— I regret not stopping you in that café, — Shamsiddin said softly. — Now I truly do... But I’ll help you. With everything I have. Just hold on.

— Will you give her something? A talisman, maybe…?

— No talismans! — Shamsiddin snapped, so sharply that even the memory of yesterday’s shattering mirror seemed like a whisper in comparison.

— From now on, you will do exactly what I say. No improvising. Both of you.

He pointed directly at Asal:

— I’m staying here until the next paranormal spike happens inside her.

He turned to Shirin:

— And you, my friend — I need to say something to you, privately.

Then he nodded to Asal, signaling her to follow him into the hallway.

They stepped aside. He lowered his voice.

— I’ll be here until night. If anything happens to her — call me immediately.

— The chief doctor’s office is the next room. I’ll be there.

— Are you going to perform some kind of treatment?

— No.

— Then what...?

— I’ll ask her one question.

— In three languages? — Asal shot back sharply.

That question immediately wiped the usual calm off Shamsiddin’s face. His expression hardened, became deadly serious.

— Girl, it seems you’ve already gone too far into this.

Know this: fascination with such practices can lead straight to schizophrenia.

Beware.

Shirin’s condition may look worse right now.

But in truth — yours might be far more dangerous.

If you’re still standing, believe me — you’re paying for it dearly.

Asal remained silent. She looked as though she wanted to say something — but no words came.

— I’ll be here. If a new episode starts — call me immediately. Got it?

— Yes…

— And no more "creative solutions" on your own. None.

To be continued…