The mirror stood sentinel. An unyielding boundary between the conceivable twilight and the shadow-ridden abyss. Upon its surface, the outlines of once-familiar faces are barely discernible, now only specters of faded whispers.

She dared not utter the name, for names have power, and power is regretted hindsight. But within her mind, a melody—a dirge of an inevitable unveiling—played, resonating with hollow echoes.

Caught in this delve into the unknown, the flickering candle offered little comfort. Its flame, gossamer thin and bruised by drafts, kaleidoscoped the walls into a phantasmagoria of grotesque sinistrality, unveiling truths too raw to linger upon.

Yet beyond the sepulchral corridor lay the proverbial light, or so the myths screamed. A chant inscribed on forgotten stone, invoking lunar tides that could churn destiny itself.

Seek and uncover more untold tales: Spectres in the Continuum