Maundy Thursday – April 17, 2025
3:00 PM
First Mystery: The Agony in the Garden
Subject: Omar
Leah's wake was quiet—until they showed up.
Candle drips cooled on the floor, mixing with the floral hush of dried chrysanthemums. Her casket sat in front of the altar, ringed by framed photos, and white flowers, and murmured prayers. Outside, Palo's streets were alive with Maundy Thursday rituals—washing of the feet, slow church hymns, the first signs of the coming vigil.
Inside, the barkada set up their phones.
"Okay, okay, go live in three… two…" Manuel counted down, his hands steady on his phone.
"—One!" Omar whispered, and the grin hit his face like a mask.
"Wassup, magpakasasala!" Omar beamed into the front camera. "Coming at you live from the creepiest wake in Palo! Special guest star? A real mumu!"
Behind him, Leah's coffin glowed gently in the candlelight. Isabel tilted her head to the side, adjusting her multi-colored dyed hair to ensure her angles were right. Paulo stayed off-screen, sitting by the door, silent as usual.
Gemma's arms were crossed, eyes flicking from Omar to the casket. "This is a bad idea."
"It's just for content," said their gay friend, laughing. "Don't be so Holy Week, Gem."
She shot him a glare. "We're literally at her wake."
"And she would've loved the attention," Isabel muttered, half into her compact mirror. "She was all about the drama."
That wasn't true, and Gemma knew it—but she didn't argue. Not here. Not with the camera rolling and Omar in full performance mode.
They called it a seance prank—a trend where people pretend to summon a ghost and stage fake glitches or screams for likes. The fact they were doing it right beside Leah's coffin? That was the punchline. Edgy. Controversial. Clickbait gold.
"Okay, okay," Omar said, rummaging through a drawer on the altar. "Let's crank it up."
He pulled out a rosary. Leah's rosary.
Gemma reached out, alarmed. "Omar, don't—"
But he was already looping it around his fingers, dangling it in front of the camera.
"Look at this vintage horror prop! Bet this thing's seen some exorcisms."
"Put it back," Paulo said, quietly.
"Relax," Omar smirked. "It's a vibe."
And then—snap.
The chain broke in his hands. A single black bead rolled across the floor.
It stopped directly in front of Leah's coffin.
Everyone froze. The mood shifted in an instant.
"…Not part of the bit," Isabel muttered.
"That was hers," Gemma said, voice low. "She used that during mass."
A long silence.
Then Omar forced a laugh. "Okay, okay, I'll fix it. Chill."
He leaned down to grab the bead—but didn't touch it.
"Just finish the skit," Isabel said. "We've got like 300 viewers already."
They dimmed the lights. Manuel queued up a TikTok audio file they'd pulled from an old-school Google Drive—one of Leah's unused tracks—a spooky, ambient soundscape. Back then, they thought it was boring. Tonight, it hit differently.
A flicker filter layered on top—grain, glitches, and an eerie glow.
Leah had called the project "Reflection Reel." She wanted it to feel like a quiet prayer.
Tonight, they twisted it into something grotesque.
Gemma stepped back. "Diri inin dapat naton ginbuhat."
Too late for regrets," Omar retorted, not breaking eye contact with the lens.
"Say hi to the spirits, y'all—"
The candles blew out.
Just like that—every single one. In unison. No wind. No warning.
Darkness swallowed the room. The only light was from the phone screens.
"Wha—?" Manuel's voice cracked.
And then came the whisper.
A faint, hissing sound—through the phone's audio, not around them. A voice only
Manuel heard:
"Now you want my footage?"
He flinched. Looked around. "May ginyakan kamo?"
But when the lights flickered back on—Omar was gone.
The room was silent.
Isabel looked around. "Omar?"
No answer.
Paulo stood slowly, staring toward the hallway. "He's just hiding, right?"
Manuel turned the camera to playback mode, scrubbing back through the stream.
"Guys…"
He found the exact moment.
Frame one: Omar was mid-joke, leaning toward the lens.
Frame two: static. No, Omar. Just the broken rosary on the floor.
Frame three: space.
No sound. No footsteps. No door creaks.
It was like he'd been erased.
"Okay, enough," Gemma said, shaking. "This isn't a prank anymore."
They split up to search. Checked the kitchen, the hall, and even the garden outside.
Nothing.
Manuel checked the comments.
"Where'd the funny bayot go??"
"Is this part of the skit?"
"Bro disappeared like poof lol"
"Who was that in the background?"
"Is this real?"
The feed kept climbing—100K views in under 20 minutes.
Omar was trending.
But he was gone.
They left early. Nobody said the word haunted. Nobody said the ghost. They just packed up and slipped out, pale-faced and shaken.
Outside, an old woman sweeping her yard paused as they passed.
Her voice, rough and thick with age, broke the silence as she looked at Gemma:
"Kalag iton. Ayaw niyo paglinurungi."
Gemma said nothing.
But the phrase looped in her head the whole trike ride home.
That Night…
Manuel was the last to stay awake.
He rewatched the stream. Again and again. Freeze-framed at the exact moment the glitch hit. The figure beside the casket was faint, but there—a glowing silhouette that hadn't been in the room.
He knew Leah's filter by heart. He'd tested it last year. There was no silhouette effect.
Then a notification pinged:
@leah.reflections tagged you in a video.
His chest tightened.
That account had been inactive since last year's Holy Week.
He clicked.
The screen went black.
Then static. Then a slow, distorted caption:
"First sorrow. You started this."
His screen cracked with a pop.
And from somewhere in the hallway outside his room, the rosary bead he'd seen earlier rolled into the light.
Good Friday, April 18, 2025
11:45 AM
Second Mystery: The Scourging at the Pillar
Subject: Isabel
Isabel didn't cry for Omar.
She posted a black square with the caption:
"Gone too soon 🖤💔 #RestInPower"
Then muted the group chat.
She didn't believe he was dead. Not really. He probably ran off for more views. Staged the whole thing. Got picked up by one of those Manila horror content pages.
But even as she told herself that, she kept checking the corners of every room. And the comment section.
"Why does this feel real?"
"Where is he now?"
"The girl in the white top looks SCARED."
"This wasn't a prank."
She didn't like that last one. Because she was the girl in the white top. And no filter could smooth over the look in her eyes when Omar vanished.
She tried texting him. No response. Then tried checking his last location—but it was frozen. Same spot as last night: Leah's house.
The sun outside was blinding. The whole town was out for the Good Friday processions. There was something surreal about the contrast: people carrying crosses in silence, women crying on cue in the reenactment, and her, standing at her window with a power bank and ring light, fixing her hair.
She opened TikTok again. Her DMs were exploding.
[RECEIVED: From Unknown]
"You think deleting the truth saves you?"
Isabel blinked. It wasn't even a username. No profile pic. Just a white cross emoji.
She screenshotted it—but before she could reply, the message vanished.
Gone.
Like Omar.
11:55 AM
The siete palabras broadcast was starting. Livestreamed straight from the cathedral to the Facebook page, their org had once helped run—back when Leah used to do the graphics.
Isabel's phone buzzed again. This time, a tag.
@leah.reflections uploaded 3 photos.
She clicked, heart hammering.
The first was a behind-the-scenes shot from last year's Lenten shoot—Leah holding a mic, mid-laugh. Isabel's arm is around her shoulders. They looked like friends.
They weren't.
The second was a screenshot of a group chat. Isabel's name is highlighted, text loud and clear:
"She's obsessed with him. It's kinda creepy, tbh."
The final post was a collage of comments from a class thread. "Drama queen."
"Always posting Bible verses like she's holier than us." "Lowkey weird energy."
All things Isabel had either said—or let others say while laughing.
Now, the world could see it.
The tagline on the post read:
"Second sorrow. Words can wound too."
12:10 PM
"Makangaralas ka! Kay ano nga di ka napapara?" Isabel hissed, pacing her room.
She called Manuel. "It's up. It's on her account. How is that possible?"
Manuel sounded tired. "I don't know. I'm still trying to get access back. It's not even tied to her number anymore."
"People are sharing it!" she snapped. "I have family on Facebook."
"Then log off."
"Spoken like someone who's not getting flamed online."
A pause. Then Manuel said, quietly, "We dragged Leah."
Isabel hung up.
She looked at herself in the mirror. The lip gloss is perfect. Hair curled. But her hands were shaking.
The rosary bead from last night's prank was in her purse. She didn't know why she took it—but she hadn't let go of it since.
She thought about throwing it away. Instead, she stuffed it deeper into the side pocket and locked the zipper.
12:30 PM
The doorbell rang.
No one was there.
Just a manila envelope sitting on the doormat.
She opened it carefully. Inside were photo printouts—real ones. Not digital.
All of them showed her, from different angles, over the last year. At school, at rehearsals, in the church. And in each one… Leah was there, too. In the background.
Out of focus. Always looking at Isabel. Never smiling.
The last photo showed Leah alone.
It was from the side of the stage during a Lenten play. She was holding a clipboard, half hidden behind a curtain. A tear rolled down her cheek.
In red ink, someone had written on the back:
"She cried right before your scene."
Isabel's stomach dropped.
She didn't even remember what she'd said that day. Probably something about the "vibe" being off. About how Leah's staging was "too boring."
Now she remembered Leah vanishing during intermission—and not returning for the rest of the play.
12:45 PM
She tried to go outside. Tried to find her mom. Tried to shake it all off.
But the town was deep in the siete palabras. The priest's voice rang through every speaker.
"My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
The stream glitched for a second—then replayed the line.
And behind the priest, just for a second, Leah's face appeared on the Cathedral's screen.
Pale. Expressionless. Mouthing the same words.
Isabel froze.
Someone screamed nearby.
12:50 PM
She ran back to her room.
She grabbed the rosary bead. Tried to throw it in the trash—but her hand wouldn't open.
The power went out.
Phone. Light. Fan. Dead.
Her screen flickered on one last time—dim, greenish static—and a voice whispered through the speaker:
"Finish your part."
The door behind her creaked.
A gust of air swept through her vanity, knocking down her mirror.
It cracked straight through her reflection.
She turned—and the light cut off again.
When her mother came home an hour later, Isabel's room was empty. No sign of struggle. No message. What remained was a Manila folder, the word "Finished" handwritten across the front in elegant script.
The rosary bead was gone.
And Leah's final post was still up:
"She tried to control the story. The story controls her now."
Good Friday, April 18, 2025
3:15 PM
Third Sorrowful Mystery: The Crowning with Thorns
Subject: Gemma
Gemma didn't leave her room after Isabel vanished.
The group chat was dead. Manuel was still online—but not talking. Paulo hadn't said a word since Maundy Thursday. Omar's prank video was still trending, and Isabel's tag scandal was making rounds across class Viber groups.
Two gone. Just like that.
Gemma sat cross-legged on the floor, her laptop open in front of her. Dozens of files from their Media & Ministry Club filled the screen—old video projects, unused thumbnails, raw interviews, and endless Google Docs that had never been opened.
She was looking for Leah.
Not the ghost. But her ex-bestfriend.
3:17 PM
The town reenactment was halfway through the Crucifixion. She could hear the speakers echoing down the street, actors crying out, and people gasping. Gemma pulled her curtain shut.
She opened an old folder marked "LENT23_PROMO".
Inside: one unfinished video draft and a script titled:
"Proposal – Sorrowful Mysteries Reflection Video (LEAH)"
She clicked.
INT. DARK CHURCH – NIGHT
A girl walks barefoot down the aisle. Alone. Her rosary is missing beads. She holds only the string. Her footsteps echo each Mystery… but no one sees her.
Leah had written the whole thing like a hybrid documentary and horror short. Not preachy. Just real. The dialogue was poetic but raw.
Each Sorrowful Mystery was paired with a line about being ignored.
AGONY – When they laughed, and you stayed quiet.
SCOURGED – When what they said left marks, silence never could hide.
CROWNED – When your reticence made you easy to mock.
Gemma stared at that last line.
Because that was the line Leah had underlined three times.
FLASHBACK – A YEAR AGO
They sat behind the Media Room, both in their uniforms, their sneakers brushing against each other. Leah was holding her phone out, showing Gemma a Canva template for the Holy Week reflections.
"What do you think?" Leah asked. "I kept it simple so the tone's respectful."
Gemma scrolled. "Puydi na."
Leah smiled—hopeful. "Puydi na? O Puydi na la?"
"It's… kinda heavy," Gemma said. "I just don't know if people will vibe with it."
Leah's smile flickered. "Right."
And that was it. The moment Gemma left her alone. Not physically. But spiritually.
It only got worse after that. Leah started sitting farther away during meetings.
Speaking up less. Editing in silence.
And Gemma let it happen. Every time.
3:32 PM – PRESENT
The church speakers outside hit the Seventh Last Word.
"It is finished."
Gemma shivered.
Her Wi-Fi cut out.
Completely.
No warning, no outage alert. Just gone.
She looked down. In her lap, tangled in the folds of her blanket, was a black rosary bead.
Her breath caught.
She hadn't seen it in a year. Not since she'd helped Leah film Stations of the Cross with the campus ministry. She remembered—Leah's rosary broke that day. She'd picked up a bead, and said, "Every prayer unfinished is still heard."
Gemma never gave it back.
Now here it was. Cold. Heavy. Unforgiving.
Her phone buzzed once.
New video file received: "The Crown.mp4"
No sender. No notification. Just the file.
Gemma hit play.
The screen showed hallway footage from Saint Mary's Academy senior high building—low-res, CCTV angle. Leah walked down the corridor, carrying a tripod. Students passed her. Some turned away. Others laughed.
Then came audio. Not from the video—but over it. A voice. Leah's.
"They say being crowned means you're chosen. But this crown wasn't gold. It was thorned. And no one saw the bleeding."
The camera zoomed into Leah's face.
She was crying. Walking anyway.
Gemma slammed her laptop shut.
3:50 PM
She couldn't sit in that room anymore.
She grabbed the bead, and the printed script, and ran. No destination. Just motion.
Her felt hit the hot pavement outside, dodging churchgoers and candle stands. Palo was flooded with reenactment energy: Roman-costumed actors, cross-bearers, and a full choir. But no one noticed her.
Gemma ran straight to the cathedral steps.
No one stopped her.
She walked inside—cool, dim, silent except for the murmured prayers.
She approached the altar. Pulled Leah's script out. Unfolded it. Placed the bead in the middle of the page.
"Leah," she whispered. "I see you now. I should've seen you then."
Nothing moved. Not the air. Not the candles.
Until her phone buzzed.
One final message:
"Third sorrow. Shame wears a crown, too."
4:00 PM
When the church closed for the evening rites, the security guards found the bead and the folded paper on the steps.
But no sign of Gemma.
No CCTV footage.
No trace.
That night, Manuel finally got access to the @leah.reflections account.
He opened it.
A new post had gone up.
A video. Gemma's face. Silent. Still. Standing inside the cathedral, looking right into the camera.
Then—her eyes shift slightly like she's watching something behind the lens.
Cut to black.
Caption:
"You can ghost people. But some ghosts walk back."
Good Friday, April 18, 2025
10:12 PM
Fourth Sorrowful Mystery: The Carrying of the Cross
Subject: Paulo
Paulo didn't like mirrors.
He never had. Not because of superstition, but because he hated what he saw in them.
Not his face—his reflection. The way he always looked like he wasn't there. Like he could disappear at any moment, and no one would notice.
That feeling was louder now.
The house was dark. His parents were still at the vigil. They hadn't noticed he hadn't spoken since Maundy Thursday. No one had. No one asked him if he was okay.
Then again, he never asked Leah, either.
He sat at his desk, headphones on, the YouTube stream of the town's Pahalik service running silently in the background. The priests sang in Waray. Candles flickered onscreen. People kneeled to kiss the feet of the crucified Christ.
Paulo didn't watch.
He opened an old folder on his hard drive labeled "GRADE10FINAL_PROJECT".
The Media Club group doc. Group of five. They did a feature on the school's pandemic story.
Leah helped film it. She even wrote half the script. She wasn't in the video, but her fingerprints were on every cut.
And she wasn't in the credits.
He remembered now. They were running late on the deadline. Manuel did the final render. Someone said, "Just trim it, we don't need everyone."
No one stopped him.
Least of all Paulo.
He scrolled through the documents. Found the original planning list. In the upper right corner was a line in blue ink: "Cinematographer – Leah R."
Someone had crossed it out with a red pen. Not erased. Not deleted. Just… overwritten.
Buried.
Inside the envelope sleeve of the folder, tucked deep in the pocket, was something small and cold.
A rosary bead.
Of course.
He didn't even flinch.
10:25 PM
He left the house quietly. Didn't tell his parents. Didn't need to.
He left quietly—hoodie on, flashlight in hand, folder under his arm, and the bead clenched in his fist.
The streets of Palo were near-empty now. The silence felt ancient. Heavy. Every door was closed, every candle burning low. Somewhere down the road, church bells tolled once—slow and deep.
He walked faster.
Leah's house was just past the chapel, on a slope near the old cemetery. Her wake was long done, her casket gone. But the altar was still there. Candles melted into wax puddles. Funeral flower wreaths and stands wilting. The air was thick with smoke and something older.
The front gate was open.
Paulo stepped inside.
He wasn't scared.
Not anymore.
Inside, the sala was dim but not dark. Her portrait stared out from the photo frame on the altar—soft smile, high school ID pinned beneath it. She looked younger than he remembered.
With steady hands, he lowered the folder onto the table.
He placed the rosary bead beside it.
Then he whispered—not to the room, but to the space she used to fill.
"Nakit-an ko nga tanan."
He didn't cry.
"I saw them ignore you. Saw them laugh. I filmed it. I didn't post it, but… I never stopped it either."
He sat down on the floor, cross-legged, just like they used to during meetings in the Media Room.
"You kept showing up. That's what I remember. Even when they acted like you weren't there. You always showed up."
The candle nearest him flickered.
"I thought silence made me safe. But maybe it just made me… nothing."
A long pause.
Then—
A soft click. Like a phone camera shutter.
He turned toward the sound.
A video was playing on the old laptop on the corner desk. It had powered itself on.
The screen showed footage from a church shoot—maybe two years old.
Leah held the camera focused on the altar. Her voice, offscreen:
"Even when no one thanks you, serve anyway. The work still matters."
Paulo swallowed hard.
He remembered the moment. That was the day Isabel left mid-shoot. Omar made jokes about "mass content being boring." Leah just stayed behind.
Finished it.
Alone.
He never thanked her.
Never even tagged her.
The screen cut to static.
A final message appeared:
"Fourth sorrow. You carried silence. Now carry this."
The bead on the altar rolled into his lap.
He didn't move.
He just whispered, "Okay."
11:00 PM
When Manuel arrived an hour later—shaking, pale, gripping a binder of scripts—he found the altar lit with all its candles again.
The folder was there.
The rosary bead was gone.
But Paulo wasn't.
There was no sign of struggle. Just a faint warmth where he'd sat, and the sound of whispering—only audible through the camera mic Manuel carried.
He hit the record, instinctively.
Played it back.
Only one phrase came through:
"He saw. He walked."
That night, Leah's account was posted again.
A photo.
Paulo, sitting in front of the altar, holding the bead in one hand and a candle in the other.
Caption:
"Even Simon carried the cross. Even if only once."
Easter Sunday, April 20, 2025
3:57 AM
Fifth Sorrowful Mystery: The Crucifixion and Death at Mount Calvary
Subject: Manuel
There were no more group chats. No more check-ins. No new posts from anyone in the barkada.
Only Leah.
Her account was still active.
And Manuel was the only one left.
He sat alone in the Media Room of Saint Mary's Academy, surrounded by tripods, ring lights, and camera bags that no one had packed away. A crucifix loomed behind him, lit only by a desk lamp.
Outside, the Sugat was about to start. The town would gather at the plaza by 4 AM for the reenactment of the risen Christ meeting Mary. Joy. Trumpets. Smoke and light.
But inside this room, it was still Good Friday.
He adjusted the camera angle.
Clean frame. Soft backlight. Mic on. Stream ready.
Go Live.
A red light blinked.
"Hey," he said. Voice steady. Face pale. "If you're watching this… you probably think it's another prank."
He took a shaky breath.
"It's not."
The view count ticked up. Fast.
Twenty. Then fifty. Then five hundred.
On-screen, he held up a piece of paper.
"Leah wrote this. A year ago. It was supposed to be our Holy Week reflection video. She called it 'Sorrowful Mysteries.' We said it was too slow. Too 'preachy.'"
He looked straight at the lens.
"I deleted her name from the credits."
Silence.
"I told myself it didn't matter. That the final cut was clean, polished, and viral. It got
40,000 views."
He unfolded the paper. Hands trembling slightly.
"Tonight, I'm going to read her words. Because we never let her say them."
He didn't wait for permission.
He read.
"Mystery One: Agony in the Garden."
Agony isn't loud. It's quiet. It's watching people you called friends laugh while you disappear one inch at a time. It's praying that maybe they'll notice.
They don't.
"Mystery Two: The Scourging at the Pillar."
People think violence is just fists. But it's also words. It's gossip dressed as truth. It's being talked about like you're a character someone else created.
You bleed. Just not where they can see it.
"Mystery Three: Crowning with Thorns."
When you stop speaking, people assume you're fine. They don't realize silence can be forced. Shame wears many crowns. Some look like silence. Some look like eyeliner.
"Mystery Four: The Carrying of the Cross."
Everyone saw. No one helped. That's the worst part. Not being mocked. But being invisible in your suffering. You carry the weight alone, and they call it drama.
"Mystery Five: Crucifixion."
It doesn't happen all at once. It's not a single moment. It's every time they say nothing. Every time they laugh. Every time they post without you, crop you out and leave you off the list. One nail at a time.
Until you're just... gone.
Manuel stopped.
He placed the paper on the table beside a single rosary bead—the last one.
"I found this in the Media Club drawer," he said. "No one knew it was there. Or maybe we all did, and just ignored it."
His voice cracked.
"I ignored her."
The view count climbed past 2,000.
He stared into the lens.
"Leah," he whispered, "you deserved better."
Then he just… stopped.
His mouth stayed open, but no words came. His throat tightened.
Something hit him. Not loud. Not sudden.
Just certain.
His shoulders sagged as if the weight of something he'd carried for a year finally announced itself by name.
She didn't just die.
She deliberately ended herself.
FLASH.
Leah was in the editing room, alone, hours after everyone left. Her head resting on folded arms. A video on pause. The rosary wrapped around her wrist. Only six beads left.
FLASH.
"It's just not the kind of content people want to see," Isabel had said. Omar laughed. "Tell her to write a horror script if she wants drama." Leah didn't argue. She just nodded, eyes down.
FLASH.
Manuel hovering over the credits. Deleting her name. Not even thinking twice.
Back in the present, Manuel's breath caught.
He looked down at the paper. Leah's handwriting. Soft, slanted. Still so neat.
"I thought…" he whispered. "I thought she was just quiet. That she was... fine."
He shook his head slowly, bitter and ashamed.
"She was saying goodbye. We just weren't listening."
His hands trembled.
"She gave up. And we watched her do it."
He covered his face for a second—silent, holding it in.
"She showed up anyway. She kept showing up—even when we pushed her out."
The camera stayed rolling.
Manuel looked back into the lens.
"She didn't haunt us because she hated us," he said, voice barely holding steady.
"She haunted us because we were the last ones who could've done something."
Behind him, something flickered.
At first, just a shimmer in the air. Then a soft light, like a candle being lit.
Then two.
Then five.
The entire back of the room glowed—dim, warm, silent.
And in the center, standing behind him was Leah.
Her presence was calm.
Not cold. Not angry.
Just… real.
She didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
Because now he knew.
She had never wanted revenge.
She wanted to be remembered right?
Manuel turned. Saw her. Didn't run.
He nodded.
"Pasaylu-a ako."
She reached out—only slightly. A gesture. Not a demand.
He picked up the bead. Held it out.
She touched it gently. Fingers barely grazing his.
And in that moment—something lifted from the room. The heaviness. The static. The shame.
Not erased.
But seen.
She didn't vanish.
She just stopped flickering.
Fully visible. Fully present.
Like she was finally whole.
4:17 AM
Outside, the town reenactment reached its climax.
Cheers erupted. Trumpets. Drums. Smoke.
Christ had risen.
Inside, Manuel smiled—just a little.
Then the screen flickered.
Once.
Twice.
And he was gone.
The livestream didn't stop.
It froze.
Still image: Manuel. Mid-sentence. Mouth open. Light surrounds him.
Comments poured in.
"Was this part of the video?"
"Where did he go?"
"This is acting… right?"
"Why do I feel like I'm not supposed to be watching this?"
"She's behind him. Look. Pause at 8:41."
"His face looks peaceful."
"Who's Leah?"
That afternoon, the @leah.reflections account disappeared from every platform.
No warning.
No archive.
Just gone.
But the final post remained on the school's website.
A title card with Leah's name. Full credits. Soft music.
Below is, one line:
"Seen. Heard. Whole."
ALT. EPILOGUE: UPLOADED
April 21, 2025 – Monday, 2:38 AM
Somewhere in the Philippines
A girl scrolls through TikTok in bed. Lights off. Headphones in. She's not from Palo.
She's just another senior high school student. Nowhere near Leyte. Doesn't know any of the kids from Saint Mary's Academy. Never heard of Leah Reyes.
She's scrolling mindlessly through her FYP.
Skip. Skip. Makeup haul. Meme. A guy dancing. A fake jump scare.
Then something glitches.
Her screen goes black for half a second.
Then a video starts playing. It's not in her feed. No likes. No caption. No account.
Just… a livestream window.
Grainy. Low light.
A boy sits alone at a desk, reading something in a whisper.
He looks straight at the camera. His mouth moves.
She turns up the volume.
Nothing.
Then she hears it—barely—underneath the static:
"…even when they erase your name, the story remembers…"
She scrolls away. Fast.
But every time she refreshes, it's back.
A new version.
New kid. New room.
Still whispering.
Still staring into the lens.
The comments are turned off.
She tries to report it.
Nothing happens.
She tries to close the app.
Her phone locks.
The screen flashes once—pure white—and then:
@leah.reflections followed you.
She doesn't remember clicking anything.
She doesn't know who that is.
She doesn't even know this account exists.
The Next Morning
On Discord, Twitter, and Facebook groups, threads are popping up:
"Anyone else getting this weird stream?"
"Keeps showing up even after I close the app."
"I think it's live. But the account's gone?"
"Dude… I saw myself in the background of it."
"No joke. The girl in the video SAID MY NAME."
Across the country, random students start receiving mysterious message requests from ghost accounts.
All tagged:#unholyweek #reflectionreel #sheknows
Each message includes a link.
Just a plain caption:
"You posted too. Didn't you?"
When they click the link, a video auto-plays.
And the first thing they see?
A single black rosary bead rolled across the floor.
Then the screen goes black.
Then their phone camera turns on—by itself.
And a voice whispers:
"Tag, someone who should've spoken up."
Final screen:
✝️ @leah.reflections
"This isn't a haunting. This is a re-upload."
BLACK.