Beyond the Glass

A small hut stood alone at the edge of a faraway 18th-century village. The winters there were long and silent.

Inside the hut lived a man. He grew vegetables, sold them once a week, and came back without a word.

He did not have friends. He did not speak.

Loneliness was his only company.

One winter night, while sitting near the fire, he saw something move in the forest. At first, he thought it was an animal.

But then it came closer. It looked like a man, but its whole body was covered with hair. Its eyes glowed like burning coal.

“I will eat you.”

The man did not run. He picked up his axe and struck again and again. Soon the snow was red. The beast was dead.

He bent over the frozen pond outside his hut. The water was still enough to hold a reflection.

In it, he saw himself — his face pale, his teeth bared, blood shining against them.

For a moment, the man was not sure if it was his reflection or the beast’s. Then he began to laugh.

The dream broke.

A young man woke up at his office desk, his head resting on files. Bright lights buzzed above him, computers around him.

His boss stood in front of him, angry.

“Sleeping again? Do you think this office is a playground?”

For a moment, the boss looked like the beast from the dream — not with hair, not with glowing eyes, but with the same threat, the same hunger.

The young man excused himself and walked to the bathroom. He splashed water on his face and looked up.

In the mirror, for a second, he thought he saw another reflection. Not just his own, but something darker, smiling back at him.

The next morning, he woke uneasy. His mouth felt strange.

He went again to the mirror.

His teeth were stained with blood.

Outside, the city was normal. Cars moved, people rushed to work, the world went on.

It showed not just his face, but the echo of something older, something that had laughed once in the snow.

And in his mind, one thought returned:

Man does not kill the beast.
Man becomes it.