In the glass, a visage not my own peered back. Its eyes, voids of despair, held the secrets of forgotten echoes.
The whispers began, soft at first, winding through the shadows until they morphed into a mournful torrent. It spoke, and I listened, against reason.
Every night, beneath the pall of stars unseen, the mirror collects fragments of the abyss, one by one.
Now I know, these reflections are not mere tricks of light, but hauntings woven into the very fabric of time and space.