The clock struck midnight; yet, there were no hours left to count. Shadows stretched in ways that defied physics, and the old wood creaked with knowledge best left unspoken. Here, in this chamber, the remnants of echoes linger.
The window, perpetually ajar, whispered secrets in a breeze that smelled like rain and decay. Outside, a garden flourished with spectral blossoms, their color as vivid as a nightmare. When the wind howled, they sang in voices only half-formed.
A hand, once familiar, now misshapen and cold, reached out beneath the bed. It was a hand that belonged to no one but the darkness itself, yet its grasp was as real as the ground beneath my feet. I felt the weight of it in dreams, where nothing was ever truly lost, only recalled.
The mirror cracked, revealing a world behind the world, a place where light had forgotten its purpose. Reflections danced upon broken glass, seamless specters threading between time. There, I glimpsed the forgotten corridors of the past, leading nowhere and everywhere.
Once, I touched a dream that was not mine. It belonged to the night, to the fractionations of stars unspoken. These dreams haunt the edges, whispering through the veil, until the dawn permits their silence.
Sleep was a distant memory, something I grasped like a phantom limb reaching for its own touch. Yet, I remain, scripting verses in the sand, where the tide and time conspire to erase all but the most stubborn truths. Let them read, let them remember this.