The whisper sighed, a fleeting brush against the frigid air between worlds, where shadows loom and clarity is one cursed away gesture's theft.
Through the fog of lost sentiments, woven onto the loom of echoing darkness, beings of mere quartz and glass find destinies untouched by fire's kiss.
To deceive and corrode, mirror-backs speaking misnamed names—they mislead the seekers encased in twilight's halting grasp.
Foretellings written not in ink but in the gradients of heinous daylight—a secret gone wandering, found by seer's blind consolation.