To the casual observer, the surface lies placid, inviting quiet attempts at communication. Speak, the surface beckons. Your voice swallows its own echo, yet its ripple responds with voices of times unseen.

In its depths, silver glimmers reveal fragments of another century's past. Spectral echoes wander through forgotten halls, and shadows of those who dared to peer deeply linger still. Faces not quite familiar, tracing your own features in hazy outlines.

"Here, the well holds more than water; it cradles moments in its glassy womb," a voice murmurs from the depths. Not yours. A memory reaching out, brushing against the somnolent terrain of your mind.

Survive the reflection, the well entreats, or be consumed by its revelation. The question remains unasked, yet is carved into the misted rim.