Then Ahaan didn't sleep for two nights.
Not after what happened.
Not after losing his name… and almost losing everything.
He had burned the photo of the orphanage, thrown the journal in a locked drawer, and hid the book under his bed.
But still…
Every time he looked in the mirror, he felt… watched.
Like his reflection wasn't really him anymore.
It started small.
On the third day, he walked past a mirror in the hallway.
His reflection didn't move.
He walked.
It stood still.
He stopped.
It smiled.
But Ahaan didn't.
That smile wasn't his.
That face… was just wearing his.
He ran to the bathroom and splashed water on his face.
Stared deep into his own eyes.
He whispered to himself, "I'm Ahaan. I'm Ahaan. I'm Ahaan."
But deep inside, something whispered back:
"Are you sure?"
The book under his bed glowed again.
It opened on its own.
A new case was written across the page in red:
CASE SEVENTEEN: The Boy Who Stole Faces
He has no name.
He steals yours.
One mirror at a time.
Ahaan slammed the book shut.
"No," he muttered. "No more."
But the lights in his room flickered.
He turned to the mirror near his closet.
His reflection was gone.
Just an empty room in the glass.
A loud knock came from his closet door.
One knock.
Then silence.
Ahaan stepped back slowly.
His breath cold in his chest.
Another knock.
Two this time.
Then—
The closet door creaked open by itself.
Darkness inside.
But something was moving in there.
Crawling out slowly.
Small feet.
Thin arms.
And then—
Ahaan's face.
But wrong.
No emotion.
Skin pale.
Eyes wide and black, like empty holes.
Mouth stretched into a crooked grin.
Ahaan backed against the wall.
The voice in his head returned, low and shaking:
"He found your face.
You left the orphanage door open.
He followed you out."
The boy stepped closer.
Each footstep echoed.
But the real Ahaan couldn't move.
He was frozen.
The fake Ahaan spoke, in his exact voice:
"You're not using this face well.
Let me wear it better."
Suddenly, the room shifted.
The walls stretched tall like a tunnel.
The floor cracked.
And Ahaan was pulled—back into the mirror.
He screamed, but no one heard him.
Now he was on the other side.
Looking out.
Watching his body—his face—walk away.
The fake Ahaan smiled at the mirror and whispered:
"Don't worry. I'll take care of everything."
Ahaan pounded on the glass from inside the mirror.
No sound.
He watched the fake version of himself walk down the hall, call out to his uncle, laugh like him, speak like him.
But it wasn't him.
It was the faceless orphan.
Now wearing him like a coat.
Inside the mirror world, Ahaan looked around.
It was a twisted copy of his house.
Upside down.
Rotten.
The windows showed black fog instead of sky.
The floor had faces in it—dozens of children, staring, trapped, mouths open in silent screams.
He was in their prison now.
He had joined the mirror children.
Ahaan ran down the mirror hallway, trying to find a way out.
Suddenly, the book appeared—floating in the air, pages flipping fast.
A page lit up:
To return:
Break the mirror holding your face.
Speak your name into the glass before he learns to smile like you.
Ahaan remembered the small mirror in his room.
He raced toward it.
But the closer he got, the more the hallway warped.
Walls stretched.
Hands reached out from the doors, trying to grab him.
Whispers hissed:
"You're forgotten now."
"You are him."
"He is you."
He screamed, ran faster.
Dodged the hands.
And finally—reached the other side of his room.
Through the mirror, he saw himself—the fake Ahaan—laughing with his uncle.
Perfectly pretending.
Ahaan raised his fist inside the mirror and punched hard.
CRACK!
The mirror didn't break.
He hit again.
And again.
Until finally—
CRASH.
The glass shattered.
A hole opened in the mirror.
Light poured in.
He leaned forward and shouted:
"MY NAME IS AHAAN!"
The fake one turned.
Eyes wide.
Face melting.
The real Ahaan pulled himself through.
Back into his body.
The fake boy screamed, twisting into smoke, and got sucked back into the broken mirror shards.
Gone.
Ahaan collapsed to the floor.
Breathing.
Alive.
The mirror was shattered.
Just broken glass now.
No more faces.
No more whispers.
Only silence.
The book lit up one last time.
You kept your name.
You took back your face.
But what did he see while wearing you?
What did he touch?
What door did he open?
Now....