"The mirrors once told stories, or perhaps they sang," murmured a disembodied voice, brushing against the fabric of time itself.
Step closer to the surface and listen; there's a symphony beneath the calm stillness of the pool. Do you remember the fizz of stars trapped in glistening cerulean? They whispered, "The clock screams not, but its hands bleed as seasons wilt."
Behind the veils of water, among the ripples, voices dance. Shadows where no light dwells.
An echo of laughter: "Is Christmas ever truly upon us, in the marketplace of souls?" Yet another pulse in the forgotten sequence...
The skies reflect nothing but memory, and pools awaken momentarily flickering histories that belonged to others.
Partake in these revelations, should you dare, mirroring the incessant undertows of curiosity: Whispers' Harbor or traverse into dilapidated Sanctuaries of the Past.