Within the ancient chest, underneath layers of forgotten velvet and sin, I, the mirror, have held a secret not meant to linger: riddles etched by an unsteady flame, yearning for tales of betrayal even ink has forgotten. Omitting no detail, I no longer exist merely as splinters and glass but as witness to a tale marred in darkness.
Embrace the lingering minutiae told through weary tables with burnished edges seeking refuge in necrotic quiet. Funds of deviant diaries slip between keys of the woodland bureau, granting no sanctuary from ember-lit conspiracies they procure from dwarfed shadows.
Listen not to the floors stretched over golden deeds for beneath them whisper curses, woven seam-by-seam into a profane lull; sheathed desires quiver in chandeliers— cracked souls they've let hang like faded tears in glass enemas.