I jolted awake in bed, as if someone had punched me hard in the chest.

My sleep clothes were soaked through with cold sweat, sticking to my body in a disgusting, clammy way. I gasped for air, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it would jump out of my throat. The sunlight from the window stabbed at my eyes painfully as I squinted at the clock on the wall—ten thirty in the morning.


This is my bedroom, that ceiling I know all too well, the yellowing stain in the corner, my wife's cosmetics on the dressing table. Everything looks normal.

I quickly check my body, arms, legs, neck, feeling all over. No wounds, no bruises, my skin is just as it was before. Those horrifying experiences in "Twilight Haven" haven't left any marks on my body.

"Just a dream," I tell myself, my voice terribly hoarse, "just a damn nightmare."


But that sense of fear still grips my heart tightly. Nora's split face, that distorted room, and that final cold sensation - all remain as clear as if they just happened. I've never had such a realistic dream before, so real that it makes me doubt my own memories.

I staggered to the computer in the living room, my fingers trembling as I turned it on. The few dozen seconds waiting for it to boot up felt like a century. A voice in my heart was desperately praying: Please, please let that post disappear, let everything from last night be false.


The computer finally started up, and I hastily opened the 2ch page.

What I saw almost stopped my heart.

That post was not only still there, but it had become a "legendary thread"—with over 1000 replies, becoming a hot topic across the entire board. I frantically scrolled down the page, searching for those warning messages I had posted last.

Found them.

At post number 985, my incomplete message "Mirror! Don't look at the mirror! Don't look at her..." was followed by hundreds of replies from internet users:

"OP, are you okay?"

"What's going on here?"

"Has anyone called the police?"

"Where exactly is Twilight Haven?"

"OP, please respond!"

"Is this real or fiction?"

"If this is true, the original poster might be already dead."

"So terrifying, I'm too scared to go outside now."

The timestamp of the last reply was frozen at 11:57 PM last night, exactly when I lost consciousness in that horrifying room. Since then, there hasn't been any response from me.

My hand hovered over the keyboard for a long time, wanting to reply something like "I'm fine," but I ultimately gave up. I closed the browser, shut down the computer, as if trying to close off that memory as well.

"Just a dream," I repeated to myself again, this time with a more determined voice, "Just a vivid nightmare caused by too much work pressure."

I began forcing myself to believe this explanation. Yes, it must be so. Work has been exhausting lately, family relationships aren't good, plus the mid-life crisis and all that—having a nightmare is perfectly normal. That 2ch thread? Perhaps I typed it out in a half-awake state, and naturally users would speculate and reply when they saw I suddenly went offline.

I took a shower, changed into clean clothes, and forced myself to go to work as usual. I was already a few hours late today, but I didn't care. I needed to get back to my normal routine, needed to prove that everything last night was fake.

On the way to the subway station, I tried hard to act normal. Looking at the convenience stores along the street, the traffic lights, those hurried pedestrians—everything appeared as the familiar Tokyo streets should. The sunlight was harsh yet warm, the air filled with car exhaust and the smell of convenience store boxed meals—these were all scents that belonged to the real world.

But just as I was waiting for the subway, I caught a faint whiff of perfume.

That scent made me freeze instantly. It was a very distinctive fragrance, not the kind of strong, cheap perfume, but rather a light, almost imperceptible sweetness with a hint of inexplicable decay.

It was the same scent from Nora's room.

I frantically turned my head, looking around for the source of the fragrance. The subway station was crowded with all kinds of people—office workers, students, housewives—but no one looked like they would emit such a scent. And the smell disappeared quickly, as if it had never been there at all.

"It's an illusion," I told myself, "definitely an illusion."

The subway arrived, and I squeezed into the carriage. On the swaying train, I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself down. The carriage had the subway's distinctive metallic smell and the body odor of the crowd—these were normal, real.

But that fragrance appeared again.

This time it was clearer, as clear as if someone was whispering next to my ear. I abruptly opened my eyes and looked around, still finding nothing. Sitting beside me was a young girl looking down at her phone, wearing ordinary office attire, no makeup, and certainly not capable of emitting that strange fragrance.

The fragrance disappeared again.

Upon arriving at the company, I forced myself to focus on work. I am a programmer at a small IT company, and my job involves writing code, fixing bugs, and communicating with clients—these mechanical tasks usually help me forget about other things.

But not today.

I sat in front of the computer, staring at the dense code on the screen, but my mind kept replaying last night's experience. Nora's smile, those bizarre rules, and that distorted room at the end. Whenever I tried to concentrate on work, those memories would flood back like a tide.

What's worse, that scent would appear from time to time.

In the office, in the bathroom, in the elevator, in the stairwell—it would always catch me by surprise, that familiar sickly-sweet smell. Each time I would nervously look around, but I could never find the source. My colleagues were working normally, nobody noticed anything unusual, and nobody could smell it.

Only I could smell it.

In the afternoon, I couldn't stand it anymore and ran up to the rooftop to smoke. I was the only one on the rooftop, Tokyo's sky was gray and hazy, and the distant buildings appeared blurry in the smog. I lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, hoping the nicotine would help me calm down.

But just as I was about to relax, that fragrance came again.

It was stronger this time, as if someone was standing right behind me. I whirled around, but the rooftop was empty, with only the gentle breeze stirring my hair.

"A dream, it's just a dream," I repeated like a mantra.

But I knew this wasn't a dream. At least not now.

When I returned home in the evening, my wife and daughter were the same as always. My wife was busy preparing dinner in the kitchen, and my daughter was doing homework in the living room. Both of them just nodded briefly when they saw me come back, without saying much.

Before, I would feel angry and aggrieved by this coldness, and would complain in my heart that they didn't care about me or understand my hardships. But today, I only feel grateful.

Grateful that I can still return to this home, grateful that I can still see them, grateful that I am still alive.

Those things I once took for granted—the aroma of dinner, the sound of the television, the scratching sound of my daughter's pencil on paper as she does her homework—now all seem incredibly precious. I even took the initiative to go to the kitchen and ask my wife if she needed help, which surprised her.

"Are you okay?" she asked, with a hint of concern in her voice, though faint, but something I hadn't heard in a long time.

"I'm fine," I said, "I just feel... feel that it's good to be home."

She gave me a look, probably thinking I sounded a bit strange, but didn't pursue it further.

Dinner was ordinary - white rice, miso soup, grilled fish, and vegetable salad. My wife's cooking has always been good. Our family sat at the dining table, and although there wasn't much conversation, this peaceful atmosphere gave me an unprecedented sense of security.

After dinner, my daughter returned to her room to continue her homework, my wife cleared the dishes, and I went to the bathroom to take a bath as usual.

The hot water pouring over my body in the bathroom felt comfortable. I closed my eyes, enjoying this simple pleasure. The hot water relaxed my tense muscles somewhat, and the anxiety that had been gripping me all day was slightly alleviated.

After bathing, I habitually walked to the sink to brush my teeth.

I looked up at the mirror in front of me.

In the mirror, I saw my wet hair, my tired face, and the white towel hanging on the rack behind me.

Then I saw her.

Behind me stood a blurry figure.

She was a girl wearing a plain dress, with a familiar smile on her face. Although the reflection was a bit blurry, I could clearly recognize that face.

Nora.

She was standing right behind me, less than a meter away, smiling as she looked at me in the mirror.

I let out an incoherent scream, falling backward with my head hitting hard against the edge of the bathtub. The intense pain made my vision go dark, but I ignored it, desperately scrambling to get up and turn around.

The bathroom was empty.

There was only me, along with puddles of water on the floor, and bottles of shampoo that had clattered to the ground because of my scream.

"What happened?!" My wife's voice came from outside the door; she was clearly startled by my scream.

"No...nothing," I stood up trembling, "just slipped a little."

"Are you sure you're okay? It sounded serious."

"Really, I'm fine. You can go back to what you were doing."

I heard her footsteps gradually fading away, but I knew she definitely thought my behavior was strange.

I turned back to the mirror trembling. In the mirror was only myself, with a small bump on my forehead from the impact, my face as pale as a dead person's. I carefully examined every inch of the mirror, confirming there was only my reflection.

But I knew I hadn't seen wrong. Nora had indeed appeared in the mirror, just as she had said—"The real service is only just beginning."

From that night on, I smashed every mirror in my home.

The large mirror in the bathroom, I shattered with a hammer. My wife's small mirror on her vanity, I threw onto the floor. The decorative mirror in the living room, I covered with cloth and moved to the storage room. Even the small pink mirror in my daughter's room, I secretly took away when she wasn't there.

My wife asked me why I smashed all these mirrors, and I just said they bothered me. She called me crazy, saying that buying the mirrors cost a lot of money, but I don't care. I would rather be scolded by her than see that figure in any mirror again.

But merely avoiding mirrors wasn't enough.

I quickly discovered that anything capable of reflecting an image became my nightmare. Store glass windows, glass doors in the subway, computer screens in the office, even the surface of a glass of water - I didn't dare to look directly at any of them. Because I never knew when I might see her figure in those reflections.

Even more terrifying was that the scent became increasingly frequent.

At first, I only occasionally smelled it on the subway or in the office, but later it began to appear several times every day. In convenience stores, in elevators, at my doorstep, anywhere - that sickeningly sweet, decaying scent would suddenly assault me, reminding me that the horrifying experience was far from over.

I've begun to grow increasingly neurotic. When walking on the street, I instinctively avoid all glass surfaces. Before entering any building, I first observe it carefully, making sure there aren't too many reflective objects. In the office, I've adjusted my computer screen brightness to the lowest setting and applied an anti-glare film to the screen.

My colleagues have started to find my behavior strange. Some ask why I never look in mirrors, why I always avoid glass doors, why I've hung curtains around my desk. I can only vaguely answer that I have eye problems and can't look at reflective things.

Worse still, I've begun to suffer from insomnia.

Every night lying in bed, I think about that distorted room, about Nora's cracked face, about her final words—"The real service is just beginning." I understand what she meant now. This wasn't a one-time experience; it's a curse that will never end.

I no longer dare to go to any entertainment venues. Naturally, I would absolutely never go to any adult establishments, and I don't even dare to step into ordinary izakaya bars because there are too many reflective surfaces there. I don't even dare to post or reply online. Whenever I want to type on the keyboard, I'm reminded of that terrifying night when I sought help on 2ch.

My life has completely changed.

Before, after work, I would often go drinking with colleagues, or go to an internet cafe to play games by myself. On weekends, I would browse electronics stores, and occasionally try my luck at pachinko parlors. All these former pleasures have now become forbidden zones. My world has grown increasingly smaller, finally reduced to just two points—home and office—and the fixed route connecting them.

My wife and daughter were puzzled by my changes, but they didn't probe deeper. Perhaps they thought it was just a manifestation of a man's midlife crisis, or perhaps they simply didn't care what changes I was going through. This indifference would have angered me before, but now I only felt grateful—grateful that they weren't drawn into this nightmare.

Sometimes I wonder if I should see a psychiatrist, if I should tell all this to someone else. But I know no one would believe me; they would just think I'm schizophrenic or hallucinating from too much work pressure. More importantly, I fear that talking about this might invite more horrors.

Several months passed, and I gradually adapted to this life dominated by fear. I learned to stay vigilant everywhere, learned to quickly identify places with reflective surfaces, learned to control my panic when certain scents appeared.

I had become a prisoner living in eternal fear.

That place called "Twilight Haven," that mysterious Nora, and those bizarre rules have become part of my life. Even though I never returned to that terrifying room, that "service" never truly ended.

Whenever that fragrance wafts by, whenever I glimpse a blurry figure in some reflective surface, I can hear Nora's voice whispering in my ear:

"Sir, the service is still continuing."

And I, like a prisoner sentenced to life without parole, continue my life of endless fear in this seemingly normal world.