The Shadow Behind the Glass

The room was silent—too silent. Claire could hear her own breathing, shallow and uneven, as she stood frozen in place. The air was thick with an unsettling stillness, the kind that made every shadow feel alive. The dim light from the hallway flickered slightly, casting shifting patterns on the frosted glass door in front of her.

And then it happened.

A hand. A dark, shadowy hand pressed against the other side of the glass.

Claire’s heart slammed against her ribs as she stumbled backward, her breath catching in her throat. The silhouette behind the glass was human—almost. Tall, slightly distorted, its features blurred as if reality itself refused to define it. The figure didn’t move, except for that single outstretched hand, fingers splayed wide, as though reaching for her. Or warning her.

She swallowed hard, her mind racing.

Is it real?

She hadn’t heard anyone enter the house. The front door was locked. The windows were shut. She was alone—or at least, she had been.

Claire took another step back, her fingers fumbling for her phone, but her hands were shaking too hard. The eerie figure remained motionless, faceless, staring at her—if it even had eyes at all.

And then the whisper came.

Soft. Almost like a breath against the glass.

"Claire…"

Her stomach twisted. The voice was familiar. Too familiar. It was hers.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her pulse hammering in her ears.

"No… No, that’s impossible."

But deep down, she knew.

The figure—this blurred, unformed version of her—was more than just a shadow. It was something she had buried long ago, something she had refused to acknowledge. Memories clawed their way to the surface, fragments of moments she had spent years trying to forget.

The locked door. The abandoned room in the back of the house. The nightmares that always ended with her waking up, breathless and cold, staring at that very same glass.

This wasn’t an intruder.

This was her past.

The weight of realization pressed down on her, suffocating.

The figure tilted its head slightly, as if sensing her recognition. Slowly, its fingers curled, retracting from the glass. The room darkened, the light dimming as if something was pulling it away.

Claire had two choices.

She could run—lock the door, turn away, pretend she had seen nothing, just like she always did.

Or she could face it.

Her throat tightened as she stepped forward, forcing herself to meet the faceless presence. The closer she got, the more the air grew heavy, thick with something unseen. With each step, the whispers grew louder, overlapping, distorted—memories, regrets, fears she had locked away.

And then she did something she had never done before.

She reached out.

Her fingers met the cold surface of the glass, just as the figure’s hand did the same. A shock ran through her, a jolt of recognition that sent shivers down her spine.

For the first time, she saw it clearly.

It was her. Not a ghost. Not a nightmare. But the version of herself she had abandoned—the part of her that had been lost in pain, locked away in the depths of her mind.

Tears burned in her eyes as she whispered, “I see you.”

And just like that, the shadow faded.

The air lightened. The whispers fell silent.

Claire exhaled, feeling a weight she hadn’t even realized she was carrying finally lift. She was alone again—but for the first time in years, she wasn’t afraid.

She turned away from the glass and stepped forward, not looking back.

For the first time, she was ready to move on.