In the realm of tender folds, where nothing clings to sight, a voice murmurs. It speaks in the language of lost skin and caressed air.
Does the mirror miss what it cannot hold? Or does the specter find solace in absence, tracing lines upon the glass that never was?
Here, where shadows dare not bend, the phantom stretches. It longs for lands untouched by light, whispered in dreams of silken thread.