At twilight, the glow of the mirror was unrelenting, pleading like the shore's final whisper to the receding tide. Here in the heart of the mirage, reflections were stories half-complete, echoing off the chrome and glass.
A figure steps forward - is it you or someone else? The mirror knows but doesn't divulge its secrets. Faces emerge and dissolve, like forgotten melodies swirling in an abandoned ballroom.
The glow thickens, binding time and shape into a vaporous haze. Words scatter upon the surface: "journey", "throughway", "soliloquy", each a beacon or a barricade in the undulating shimmer.
Perhaps these are the thoughts you never dared to speak, mirrored back with a haunting clarity that both terrifies and enchants. In the funhouse, the single narrative echoes as many voices, as dissonant yet harmonious as a dream.