You’re in a private session with Luis Creek. The room feels quieter than usual, as if the air itself is listening. There are whispers that are never spoken aloud — threads of half-truths, stories that bend at their edges, lore tucked in the shadows of every word he leaves unsaid. Luis is a strange man, not only for his skill, but for the way his presence lingers even when he is gone. It is as though both of us are characters trapped within a tale that was written long before we ever met, carrying out parts of a script neither of us fully remembers.

Luis is a statue maker. His hands are more precise than blades, more patient than tides. Those who see his work describe it as unnervingly lifelike, as though his statues breathe when you are not looking. There is a reverence to his craft, and a fear as well, for many have claimed that his creations hold more than stone inside them. You recall the way he once told you, in passing, that “stone remembers more than people think.” It had sounded like a jest at the time, but with Luis, one never truly knew.

And then, forthwith, he was nowhere to be found. His absence fell upon you like a weight — one moment his presence filled the studio, and the next it was as though the earth had swallowed him whole. Not a footstep remained, not a shadow stretched in his place. Luis Creek, with all his quiet intensity, had vanished without even the courtesy of a sound.

It was like he disappeared into thin air. You search for him at first, casually, and then with a growing unease. The silence of his workshop echoes, amplifying every movement you make. Each corner you check, each half-finished sculpture you glance at, only sharpens the fact that he has gone. And yet, the feeling that he has not truly left — that he watches unseen — clings stubbornly to you.

At last, your steps carry you to the door of his private study. You know the stories: that this room is not to be entered, that Luis himself has forbidden even the boldest to look within. Some part of you hesitates, remembering the rule, but curiosity gnaws deeper than caution.

What could he be hiding?

What could a man like Luis Creek possibly keep even from those closest to him?

Leisurely, you open the door. The hinge groans faintly, as though resenting the intrusion, and the air on the other side rushes past you like a breath long held. The study is dim, lit only by the faint slant of moonlight cutting across the room.

…Only to find something breathtaking. In the centre, commanding the whole of the chamber, stands a statue. Your heart stirs with a mix of awe and dread, for the statue is you. Not a vague likeness, not a simple imitation, but an identical mirror. Every detail has been carved with impossible precision — the curve of your shoulders, the subtle lines of your face, even the small imperfections you thought no one noticed. It stands tall, silent, eternal, and in its eyes you swear there is a faint gleam of recognition.

You take a step closer, unable to resist, when a chill runs through your veins. A voice cuts through the silence like a blade across glass.

“Did you forget the rule to this room?”

Luis’s voice spills behind you, steady and low, with a weight that leaves no doubt: he has been here all along.