Behind The Glass: A Truth That Should Have Stayed Hidden

**Chapter 1: The Forgotten Room** The rain hadn’t stopped in three days. It fell relentlessly over Dharmagiri—a sleepy hill town perched at the edge of the Western Ghats, far removed from the digital world. Roads wound like serpents through mist-drenched cliffs. The fog was so thick, even headlights couldn’t pierce through it. Detective Aryan Chauhan had seen many crime scenes in his decade of service—but never one like this. Never in a place where people *chose* to forget instead of remember. The SUV’s tires crunched against gravel as he approached the iron gates of **Hotel Miraya**—or what remained of it. The once-grand heritage hotel was now a crumbling skeleton of moss and broken windows. Vines crawled across its faded pink walls like veins. Rusty hinges groaned as the gate gave way, as if the building itself was warning him not to enter. He killed the engine. Pulled on his gloves. And stepped into the past. --- Three days ago, **Anika Mehra**, a 22-year-old psychology student, had vanished during a college trekking trip. Her last phone location pinged near the abandoned Hotel Miraya. Official reports were inconclusive. Local police dismissed it as a case of misadventure. But Aryan had seen something in the GPS data others hadn’t. Her phone had remained *inside the hotel* for 14 hours before it stopped transmitting. Why? He walked past the reception area, half-expecting the building to collapse under its own history. Dust coated everything like ash after a fire. The grand chandelier above had long since fallen, its shattered remains still on the floor. Time had frozen here. But what disturbed Aryan wasn’t what was broken. It was what was **untouched**. A **diary** lay open at the concierge desk. A half-burnt candle beside it. Footprints in the dust—small, recent, and definitely not his. He flipped the pages. **May 16, 1998.** "She went in, and she didn’t come out. The mirror swallowed her." The next page was torn. Aryan narrowed his eyes. A local constable had told him the place was **cursed**, closed after three guests had mysteriously died in 1998, all within Room 13B. But according to old blueprints… there **was no Room 13B**. --- He climbed the cracked staircase, flashlight in hand. Every step groaned like a tired man begging him to turn back. On the first floor, he saw them. Room 11. Room 12. Room 14. And then… **Room 13B.** There it was. A rusted plaque on a door that shouldn’t exist. The number etched crudely, as if someone had *added it later*. The knob was old but not jammed. He twisted it. The door opened. And the room breathed him in. --- The temperature dropped the moment he stepped inside. It wasn’t just cold—it was *wrong*. Like the kind of cold that came from places buried, forgotten. The wallpaper peeled in long strips, exposing rotted wooden panels. The bed was still made, untouched for decades. But on the far wall, opposite the window… hung a **mirror**. Seven feet tall. Framed in blackened wood carved with strange symbols. Unlike anything else in the hotel, the mirror was *pristine*—no dust, no cracks. Too clean. Aryan walked toward it. And froze. The reflection didn’t match the room. In the mirror, the bed sheets were white and fresh. The walls were painted. The candle on the nightstand was lit. And behind him, in the reflection— A **girl** stood silently. Anika. --- He spun around. No one. His heart thudded as he turned back to the mirror. The girl was still there, her eyes pleading, her lips moving but making no sound. He reached out. The moment his fingertips grazed the glass, a jolt passed through him like static. Then— A whisper. From nowhere. From **everywhere**. “Behind…” The mirror fogged slightly, and on its surface, a message appeared as if written by an invisible finger: **“She’s still here. Just not in your world.”** His phone buzzed violently. A forensic update. **"Fingerprint match confirmed: Room 13B contains prints of missing girl Anika Mehra."** Aryan stepped back. His breath was short. The mirror was now normal again. No girl. No message. Only his own reflection. But he knew what he saw. And something deep in his instincts screamed: **This wasn’t just a missing person case.** This was a door. A **threshold**. And Room 13B had been waiting.