Once in a mansion tucked beneath sprawling oaks, an invisible melody resonated in silence, ensnared only in the glimmers of dust upon ancient glass. Mirrors were not merely reflections, but windows unto an unseen thread connecting souls of dust and whispered hopes.
On the day I stumbled into this forgotten realm, the skies wept with gray feather ghosts. The hall stretched interminably, each step reverberating with the stories stitched into its very foundation. Unheard echoes clawed at my senses, a narrative tangled like ivy 'round wary bricks.
"Do leaves hold memories of moths hidden beneath their veins?" she pondered aloud, seated before an oaken desk worn by years. The inquiry floated like tendrils in the attic aroma of ink and dust. Voices in mirrors told her of shadows unseen, only touched upon by fleeting musings.
As evening draped, a haunting melody infiltrated—ash-gray waltzes carried on echoes, One could imagine spectral dancers gliding, lost in time's convex embrace. Each note struck a chord deep within secret grooves—harmonies only visible to the heart.