Behind the glass, where the light surrenders, a voice echoes.
As the evening shadows stretched their fingers over the room, I found myself drawn toward the ancient mirror that hung precariously on the wall. An heirloom, they said, from a time before names were needed to describe things—only whispers and shadows.
Haunted words: "The scalar beams intersect within the folds of your being; do not stare too long, or the past will unfurl its forgotten whispers, revealing truths best left dormant."
I stared at the reflection, not of my face, but of a spectral figure whose features blurred like smoke. It was then I realized, the mirror was not merely glass—its surface was a portal, skimming the edges of reality and illusion.
The moment hung, suspended in the quiet of the room, as if time itself held its breath. I reached out, my fingers brushing the cold surface, and felt the hum of the ‘decode scalars’ coursing through the glass—an ancient language that twisted and turned, eluding comprehension.
Do these echoes bring warmth or chill? The answer lies in the paths we choose to wander. Perhaps Echoes would tell a different story. Or may the Whisper guide us through the fog of bygone eras.