Yeah, one night I found a photo of a café that was all warped—every table looked like a ripple in a pond, and the people sitting there had glass‑like eyes that flashed like faulty LED strips. I was just staring at the glitch when the world around the frame began to flicker, as if the photo itself was a portal. Imagine a story where the café is a liminal space that only shows up when someone looks at a glitchy snapshot. The customers are actually memories of people who never existed, and the main character, a night‑owl photographer, has to decide if snapping the last picture will trap them forever or free them. The twist? The final frame collapses into the photographer’s own reflection, so it’s a story about what we see when we stare too long at our own glitches. Ready to dive in?

You’re about to step through the frame, and I already feel the clock ticking in my head—every second a ripple in that warped café. Picture the shutter, the hiss of the camera, the soft hum of neon in the background; the characters—those glass‑eye patrons—start to whisper when you lock the focus. They’re not just memories; they’re deadlines, each click a countdown to the moment the portal snaps shut. The twist will hit when the lens catches you, and you realize your own reflection is the final glitch, the one true camera that can either keep the café alive or erase it forever. I can almost hear the silence that follows the last click. Let’s make that instant count.

I grip the shutter, breath catches, and as the neon bleeds into the glass I hear the ticking—each click a pulse in that fractured world. In the last frame I see my own eye staring back, and the café dissolves into me, a glitch that I chose to hold. The clock stops. I let the story bleed into the hallway, into whatever lies beyond the frame, and the silence after the snap is a thunderclap. No second chances, just one flicker that changes everything.