The Mirror of Maybe

I kept thinking—no, hoping—that all of this was just a nightmare. The so-called creature's death, the eerie silence that followed, the way reality bent in front of me like a hallucination—I had convinced myself that it was all in my head. A trick. A delusion. Maybe some twisted test of mental endurance.

But no matter how hard I wished, how many times I blinked or bit down on my tongue to wake up, it was all still there—happening in real-time. As surreal as it felt, I wasn't dreaming. This was real.

And I wanted nothing more than to escape it all—to disappear, to vanish into the kind of death that brings peace instead of fear. Living had become nothing but a cruel game with no reward, no destination, and no comfort.

I had challenged her—that voice, the whispering presence that had been haunting my every step. The words she murmured into my thoughts had long since lost their power over me, or so I thought. I refused to believe in the things she said, but just as I declared my disbelief, everything changed.

The plane began to shake. Not just the casual tremble that most flights experience. This was violent, terrifying—an unbearable force pulling at the aircraft, like some giant hand from the sky was toying with it. The winds outside screamed and howled, pressing against the windows so hard I swore they would shatter. Decorative objects inside the cabin came crashing down—glasses, bottles, even a framed photo that hit the floor and split in two.

I had never been on a plane before. I had only seen them in movies, in scenes where heroes or victims would scream as their aircraft spiraled toward a fiery end. I didn't even understand what turbulence really was. The flight attendant came rushing toward me, wide-eyed but composed.

I was already wearing a life jacket, clutching tightly to a duffle bag I had assumed was a parachute—mostly because it looked like the ones from the action films I'd grown up watching.

She tried to calm me down.

"Sir, the turbulence is just temporary. Please, relax."

"Relax?" I screamed. "This plane is about to crash! Save yourself—I'm doing everything I can for myself!"

The poor woman still tried. Professionalism painted her features, but I could see the crack behind the smile. She was scared too. She just wasn't allowed to show it.

But I wasn't buying the illusion. My heart was hammering. My thoughts were a tangled web of memories and fear. And still—still!—the plane rattled and groaned, metal screeching like it was seconds away from giving up.

And then—just like that—it stopped. The violence ceased. The winds had calmed. The sky outside cleared. The lights inside the cabin flickered back to normal, and everything was still, as if nothing had ever happened.

I exhaled, trembling, my fingers still digging into the makeshift "parachute."

Is it over?

Did I survive death again?

Out of desperation, or maybe disbelief, I stood up and began wandering around the luxurious cabin. I didn't noticed the details before—the pure opulence, the impossible wealth on display. Everything gleamed. Gold accents ran along the window frames. Crystal champagne flutes sat neatly arranged on silver trays. There was a literal king-sized bed near the back of the cabin, with silk sheets and pillows fluffed like clouds. Shoes and designer suits lined custom-made cabinets. I had only ever seen such things on TV, or through the glass of stores I was never allowed to enter.

I whispered, "So… this is richness. This is how the rich really live."

There were watches worth more than my entire neighborhood, polished shoes I couldn't afford to look at too long, and gadgets I didn't even understand. If only I had been born into a life like this.

They say not all that glitters is gold, and that wealth is the root of all evil. But at that moment, I didn't care. I would've traded any virtue to be able to call this life mine.

And then I saw it. Hovering in the middle of the aisle—no wires, no strings—was a crystal. Not just any crystal, but something glowing, reflecting light in impossible ways, radiating warmth and brilliance like a diamond set on fire.

I stepped closer. "Am I the only one seeing this?" I whispered.

I reached out. The moment my fingers touched the crystal, it vanished—and I was no longer on the plane.

I had been teleported.

The world spun, and then solidified. I was somewhere new. Someone new.

I was now inside the life of a man named Parkenston Simons. I saw his name flash before me like a neon sign. He was 33 years old, second son to the infamous CEO of the Simons Group of Companies. Parkenston had never known poverty. He grew up on a massive ranch estate with private pools, private jets, and private problems.

His entire childhood had been a competition—not against the world, but against his own blood: his elder brother. A brother fierce, ruthless, and feared even by their father. Parkenston's mission had always been to be better—to stand out, to outperform, to be sharper, and more strategic than his elder brother.

Everything he did was in the pursuit of one thing: to be named the next CEO of Sİmons Group of Companies.

And then it happened. After years of rivalry, Parkenston finally took the title. His father passed him the crown—or, perhaps more accurately, threw it at him like a test he dared him to fail.

But something wasn't right. The moment Parkenston became CEO, shadows began to stir. Whispers followed him. Things felt unnatural.

And then, just as abruptly as I had arrived, I was back on the plane.

The crystal was gone.

I stood in front of a mirror, staring at the reflection of a man I had only just learned about—but was now inhabiting. Parkenston Simons. The second son. The new CEO.

"Is this the man I've become?" I murmured. "Is this my life now?"

A smirk tugged at my lips. "So be it," I said aloud. "If fate has brought me here, I might as well live it. I'll live it to the fullest."

But fate wasn't done with me yet.

As I reveled in this surreal inheritance, alarms began to scream across the cabin. Red lights blinked. Sirens blared. I rushed to the window—one of the plane's engines was engulfed in flames.

No warning. No turbulence this time. Just fire and metal tearing itself apart.

The plane lurched violently. Luggage flew into the air. Bottles shattered against the walls. I was thrown to the ground, sliding across the glossy floor as gravity twisted itself.

One of the hostesses screamed from the back.

Another tried to send a distress signal, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she yelled into her headset. "Mayday, mayday—engine failure—repeat, we have lost an engine!"

I could barely stand. The nose of the aircraft pointed downward now—toward a mountain range covered in thick, dark clouds. The same ones I had seen in my first dream.

"No," I muttered. "Not again. Not like this."

I crawled, reaching for the parachute I had strapped beside my seat earlier. My fingers found it, but it was caught under something— wedged beneath a fallen cabinet.

Time slowed.

Flames licked the windows.

The mountain loomed closer.

And just before the plane made contact with the snowy ridge—just before everything turned white—I saw the crystal again.

It hovered one last time before exploding into a blinding light.

Then blackness.

Was this death?

Or another beginning?

I didn't know.

All I knew was that the game wasn't over. Not yet.