In the half-light, the mirror stands quietly, a portal to places beyond perception. It creaks like a wooden shutter as it reluctantly opens, revealing glimpses of unraveling time. Every blink carries a tide, washing in memories that no longer belong to those who softly speak their names.
Mirrors are not mere reflections. They are storytellers of the unexplained, chronicling echoes of laughter once woven into the tapestries of life, now just whispers in empty halls. The shutter questions these footprints—were they ever real, or are they and you fragments woven from some other dream?
As one gazes into the depths, the stories told by the mirror are shadowy, tinged with hues of the past. There's a habit within these reflections: like the wind shifting through leafless trees, they show merely what was, and what could have been. In every moment of contemplation, you sense the watchful eyes of old, binding, unbinding fate with nothing more than a careful, calculated shutter-strain.