Between the lines of reality and fiction lies a labyrinthine corridor not quite tangible. There exist tales, pulsating like artifacts, carefully stored somewhere familiar yet elusive.
"Did you remember the suitcase?" asked Cassandra, stepping delicately over sideways puddles reflecting no skies. Her questions hung like specters in the staleness.
Eyeless mannequins nodded, their approval unsettling, as the floor beneath trembled with Bastien's laughter, echoing through invisible passages.
"Life is a kaleidoscope," Bastien scribbled nonsensically, "Spin once and you find paths to misremembered afternoons."
Roads diverge, mend, repeat—a carousel of whims murmuring beneath fractured light. Seekers stumble here, traversing whispers only mirrors can ensnare.