Between the whispering leaves, reflections distort potentials. Every truth glistens, yet, hidden, an absence masks existence—the ugliest truth, they say, is the illusion of choice beneath disguised luminescence.
Mirrors show what is not, revealing truths that are ugly only because one's face is toga-covered darkness dyed in morning's pristine another's identity essence clings underlying breezes detestable everything.
Choose a reflection, if you dare. It is similar to the other, yet speaks words you dare not craft.
Explore the Hall of Phantoms