In the echo of the fading twilight, she found a whispered secret.
The edges of reality wavered like the heat above a summer road,
shimmering, elusive, mocking the senses with a dance known only to itself.
Beyond the familiar skyline, a flicker—the hidden plane, she had heard the stories,
woven like a tapestry of dreams and nightmares alike.
A place where thoughts refracted in echoes of forgotten truths,
colliding in the spaces where light dared to play.
"Do you believe in prisms?” he had asked once, his voice slicing through the mundane.
"The ones that don't just bend light, but bend reality?
Change the very fabric of what we see?"
She had laughed then, a hollow sound against the backdrop of his conviction. Now, standing on the precipice, it felt less like a joke and more like fate's cruel jest.
Reflexively, she reached out, fingertips grazing the edge of a world unseen,
brushing against the veil with the gentleness of a lover's touch.
The hidden plane awaited, breath held in the silent void between moments.
Memories scattered like autumn leaves in a forgotten park,
each a fragment of a life lived in technicolor dreams.
She gathered them, shards of time, refracted through the prism of her mind.
A child’s laughter echoed, trapped in the glass boundaries of yesteryear,
the joy pure, untarnished by the weight of reality.
Shadows danced around her, playful specters of the past.
Were they hers, or borrowed from another's tale?
The question lingered, a specter in its own right, haunting the edges of understanding.