The clock ticks, but it doesn't make a sound in this quiet place. Do you hear it? It echoes in the void, but perhaps the void holds no ears to listen. Time is an illusion, Michael once said, but isn't it also a friend, keeping us company in this labyrinth of mirrors?
Reflections ripple like forgotten dreams, scattered shards of reality caught in a dance with the light. I touched the surface once, only to find my fingers lost in the depths of its stillness. Did I touch you, or were you just a reflection of a dream I had about touching something real?
Waves upon waves of untold stories conceal the truth, bending and twisting in an eternal embrace. But what is truth if not a reflection of another illusion? The walls whisper secrets of bygone days, and I stand here, peering into the glassy past, wondering where the echo of your laughter went.