In the dim corners of the cerulean twilight, shadows twine with shadows. Their whispers linger on my lips, their faces—each a myriad apparition—dance within the glass I dare not gaze into for long. Once, there was serenity in stasis, a curious calm that fills empty temple halls as if awaiting the return of long-forgotten gods.
Look now, they urge, do not turn away. But it is not external eyes I fear, nor the company of these flickering forms, but the inevitability of their presence as my own. A collective echo, reverberating through corridors unseen, all selves whispering a singular incantation.
Made of brittle time, the mirror collects our sighs. In mirrors, we are perpetual spectators, right where their breath meets sound.
Extracts from unseen manuscripts yield unfamiliar lines, even as we carve memories anew from forgotten scripts.
Find me where none can seek—where wisps weave through fabric worn by time, where the moonlight unravels the thick smell of ancient wood and dust.