Shadow Play

In the cloister's eternal twilight, I found myself drawn to the ancient mirror that hung with arrogance upon the far wall. Its surface, ever a mystery, resisted reflection until the room whispered my name in tones both familiar and foreign.

As I peered into the glass, the stories of solitude and dreams untold spilled from the shadows. I recognized, with a dizzying thrill, the silhouettes of bygone days, capturing the essence of laughter muffled behind crimson cloister walls, now mute.

Those figures, dance partners in a melancholy masquerade, nodded in recognition of a shared forgotten tale. Who are you? I silently asked, as they stepped beyond the line where reality blurs, their eyes reflecting flames of stories waiting to be unearthed.

Perhaps, beneath that fine sheen of memory, lies more than mere reverie. Perhaps, there awaits an echo of truth, an unkind portrait of what was and what was never.