The sun slips beneath the lake, its mirrored visage lost
in the fog. Here, footsteps echo where no one treads,
reverberating in the void like unsung lullabies.
"It was a reflection," they whispered, as if to convince
the shadows of their own presence. In this dreamscape,
paths diverge into echoes, and the light fades like a
forgotten promise.
Do you hear them? The phantom whispers that drift between pages,
like leaves carried away by an autumn breeze?
At twilight's edge, we chase fading echoes,
trying to capture the ephemeral light that dances just beyond reach.