The Conference Room Reflection

The glass walls are supposed to make the office feel open.

During the day, they reflect light, movement, people passing by with coffee cups and half-finished conversations. At night, they turn the building into a maze of mirrors.

I was on a late Zoom call—headset on, lights dimmed, laptop balanced at the end of the conference table. It was past midnight, the hour where everyone’s voice sounds slightly unreal, like we’re all pretending not to be tired.

Behind me, the glass wall reflected the darkened office floor.

That’s when I saw it.

A shape, pale and vertical, standing just outside the frame of my camera’s reflection. Not fully behind me—offset, like it had learned where not to be seen. Its outline was thin, stretched, almost unfinished, as if it hadn’t fully decided on a form yet.

I froze.

On the call, someone was talking about deadlines. I nodded automatically, eyes locked on the reflection. The figure didn’t move. It didn’t sway or breathe.

It just stood there.

I told myself it was a trick of the light. My own reflection layered over shadows. Exhaustion.

Slowly, casually, I turned around.

The room was empty.

No footsteps. No movement. Just the hum of the air vents and the faint buzz of emergency lighting.

I turned back to the screen.

The figure was still there.

Closer.

Its head now aligned perfectly behind mine, like it was learning how to stand. Its face—or the idea of one—hovered just above my shoulder. No features, just a pale blur where a face should have been.

My name popped up in the Zoom chat.

You okay? You look distracted.

I didn’t answer.

The reflection leaned forward.

The glass didn’t distort it. Didn’t blur it. It stayed sharp in a way reflections shouldn’t.

I reached up and slowly closed my laptop.

The screen went black.

For a moment, there was only darkness.

Then the glass wall caught the emergency lights again.

The figure was still there.

No longer behind me.

In front of me.

Standing where I should have been reflected.

It raised one hand—not waving, not threatening. Just testing the shape of its fingers, like it was practicing being seen.

I left the building without shutting off the lights.

Security asked the next morning why the conference room camera was still active overnight.

I checked the footage.

At exactly 12:41 a.m., my chair rolled back.

I stood up.

And then—without turning—I walked out of frame.

The problem is—

I don’t remember doing that.

And tonight, when I joined another late call from home, my webcam turned on by itself.

For just a second, before I covered it—

I saw the reflection again.

Standing exactly where I used to be.