The Witness
Flash Fiction by Vasu Gangapalli
Word Count: 373

The night was wrapped in a sheet of silence—until a scream tore through it.

Mira Patel stood at her apartment window, clutching a mug of cold coffee. The streetlamp below flickered weakly, painting long shadows on the empty road. At exactly 12:03 a.m., she saw it.

A man dragging a body into the alley.
A knife glinting.
A soft cry.
And then—stillness.

Her fingers trembled as she fumbled for her phone and hit “record.” The shaky footage caught the hooded figure bending down, wiping the blade on their sleeve. Her pulse roared in her ears.

“Miss Patel, are you sure about what you saw?” Officer D’Souza leaned forward, brows drawn tight.

“Yes,” she whispered. “He stabbed him. I recorded it.” She pushed the phone toward him.

He clicked play. The room filled with the hum of night and static. The brutal act replayed. Mira’s heart skipped as she noticed something she hadn’t before:

The killer looked up at the camera. A flash of eyes. A faint reflection on a nearby glass panel.
Same hair. Same jawline.

It looked like her.

D’Souza’s voice blurred. “We’ll check the alley. Don’t leave town.”

Hours later, Mira sat in the dark, replaying the video again and again. Her hands shook. “It can’t be me,” she whispered. “It can’t.”

Then—a knock. She flinched. A paramedic stood outside.

“Miss Mira Patel?”
“Yes?”
“You were found unconscious near the crime scene an hour ago. We treated you and sent you home. Do you remember?”

Her breath caught. “No. I was here.”

“We have your fingerprints all over the alley,” he said.

Memory clawed its way back: the bar, the man, her trembling hands, a whispering voice she couldn’t silence.

The reflection in the window wasn’t a stranger. It was her.

Officer D’Souza’s voice echoed as the cuffs clicked.
“Mira Patel… you were the witness, yes. But you were also the killer.”

She had filmed herself.