Reflections Are Fractured

The human mind is an intricate labyrinth, not a library. I've spent my life navigating its corridors, seeking facts, not fiction. But the truth, I've come to learn, is a mosaic, and every person holds a single, flawed tile. This case was meant to be a simple search for a missing person. It became an excavation of fractured memories, a descent into the very nature of identity. I was not just searching for a man; I was piecing together his ghost from the competing narratives of those who remembered him differently. As I delved deeper, the truth became an elusive shadow, and I began to wonder if I, too, was an unreliable narrator in my own story.