Sufi was the central character of this story—a boy as ordinary as they come. He preferred solitude over crowds and never felt comfortable surrounded by too many people. Perhaps that was why he had only one friend in the world.
His name was Max.
Apart from each other, neither of them had anyone else. Their personalities were strikingly similar—their thoughts, their likes, even their age. They studied in the same nearby government school and shared an unusual fascination: jinns and spirits. Watching horror movies together, reading about supernatural entities, and imagining what it would be like to encounter one—this was how they spent most of their time.
One day, curiosity got the better of them.
"What if we actually try to talk to a jinn?" Max said half-jokingly.
The idea terrified them—and thrilled them.
They had no idea how such a thing was done, but Sufi vaguely remembered reading something about it in a book. The two sat together, trying to recall where they had seen it. After a while, Sufi's eyes widened.
"The school library," he said. "I borrowed a book once. It mentioned how humans could communicate with jinns."
The next morning, they rushed to school and went straight to the library. They asked Jack, the librarian, about the book.
"Yes, it exists," Jack said slowly, "but someone else has borrowed it."
"Who?" Sufi asked.
"I don't know his name," Jack replied. "But I saw him going toward Class 7. He might still be there."
They went to Class 7 and looked inside. A boy sat alone, deeply absorbed in a book. Sufi walked up to him and called out softly. The boy looked up.
Sufi froze.
Fear crept into his chest as he saw the boy's face—scarred and distorted. Before Sufi could say anything, the boy spoke calmly.
"Don't be afraid. I'm just an ordinary boy. Acid spilled on me when I was a child. That's why my face looks like this."
Ashamed, Sufi lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry. Can I… know your name?"
The boy smiled faintly. "Only if you want to be my friend."
Max watched from a distance, equally frightened yet curious.
"Yes," Sufi said after a pause. "I'd like that."
"My name is K," the boy replied.
"K?" Sufi asked. "That's… unusual."
"It stands for Kala," the boy said. "I was very dark as a child, so my parents named me that. I didn't like it. I shortened it to K."
The three talked for a while, and eventually, Sufi and Max got the book they were looking for. That evening, they returned home and began searching through its pages.
Soon, they found the method.
At exactly 3:00 a.m., one person must sit alone in a locked room. Their eyes must be blindfolded. In the center of the room, only a single oil lamp should burn. The room must have no other source of light. A drop of the person's blood must be mixed into the oil of the lamp. No matter what happens, the blindfold must not be removed.
Only one person could perform the ritual.
They flipped a coin.
"Heads," Sufi said.
The coin fell.
Heads.
That meant Max would do it.
At 3:00 a.m., Max sat alone in the room, his eyes blindfolded. The lamp burned in front of him, its oil mixed with his blood. Sufi stood outside the locked door.
Suddenly, Max heard something fall.
His heartbeat quickened.
Overcome with fear, he removed the blindfold.
The lamp had gone out.
"Open the door!" Max shouted.
Sufi rushed in and turned on the lights. The oil inside the lamp, which had turned red earlier, now looked completely normal.
"Maybe the blood burned away in the flame," Sufi said.
Max's eyes drifted to a mirror in the room.
It was cracked.
He ignored it.
One Day Later
Sufi woke up the next morning, heading to wash his face—when his mother ran toward him, crying.
"Your friend… he's gone."
Sufi's legs went numb. He collapsed.
When he regained consciousness, he cried uncontrollably. His mother took him to see Max one last time.
The moment Sufi saw Max's face, he fainted again.
Later, he woke up in his own bed, convinced it had all been a nightmare. He ran to Max's house—but Max wasn't there.
That's when reality struck.
That night, Sufi dreamed.
He stood frozen in the corner of a dark room. In the center, the same lamp burned. Max sat before it. Sufi called out to him—but Max couldn't hear.
From the cracked mirror, a shadow emerged.
It stared at Max.
Then it looked at Sufi—and laughed.
The shadow knocked over the lamp, separated the blood from the oil, smeared the blood over its eyes, and vanished back into the mirror.
Sufi screamed—and woke up.
His mother rushed in. "Why are you screaming?"
"I had a bad dream," he said, crying.
Seven Days Later
Max's father came to visit.
"There's no doubt," he said softly, "that Max was not only a good boy, but also your true friend."
Sufi asked how Max had died.
"By suffocation," his father replied. "I called him for breakfast. He didn't answer. I found him on the floor, his nose broken, blood flowing. The doctors said he was already dead."
They both cried.
That night, unable to sleep, Sufi went to drink water. His eyes fell upon the mirror in his room.
He stood right in front of it.
But he couldn't see his reflection.
Suddenly, Max appeared inside the mirror—writhing in pain.
"Max!" Sufi cried.
Max stepped closer, pushed his hand out of the mirror, grabbed Sufi—and pulled him inside.
Sufi was no longer in his world.
He had entered the Mirror World.