Whispers echo along the chilled walls, corridors twisting, winding, as if the building itself breathes. The light falters, flickers... then vanishes into the arms of darkness. Shadows flit from corner to corner, secrets held in their grasp, but none dare speak. Not yet. Not now.
A shadow slips beneath the door, no longer patient. It has waited too long, the tattered edges of its being quivering with urgency. "Go!" it urges silently, every heartbeat synchronized to the rhythm of its pleading.
Somewhere in the maze, a clock ticks... or is it a bomb? Time warps and spirals—a ledger soaked in ink and candle smoke. The journal entries are hurried, frantic, like the scrawl of a madman:
- "Day 237: The walls have ears, and they listen closely to my every prayer."
- "Day 349: I am the shadow in corridors overlooked, unseen yet everywhere."
- "Day 496: Today, I learned how to whisper back."
Skirls of laughter resound—a hollow sound, a trick of the mind. "Turn left at the wardrobe," it beckons, hinting at the entrance to other realms. Must we always choose the left path? The logic defies rationality, folding into itself like an origami of mischief.
Your reflection... or is it them? Faces in glass, eyes in mirrors, all watching, waiting. The corridor grows thick with unseen pressers, a tangible heaviness that pulls at the fabric of reality.