In the placid embrace of the glass, secrets linger, half-formed, waiting to be exhaled by the forgotten voices that trail their fingers across its surface. Beneath those shimmering boundaries, a symphony of muted affections quivers—a reflection not of what is, but of what has slipped away, dissolving into whispering voids.
Time trembles before such reflections. Memories wake and wander through the haze, their outlines softened like winter's breath upon frost-kissed panes. Explore further into the corridors of these spectral reveries, where each glance through the mist may unearth another shadow's truth.
Was that the echo of a name, carved in the fleeting light? An inscription from a distant past, barely graspable—a sound reverberating not from lips, but from the soul's murmur. Listen closely, and perhaps find your own reflection amidst the soft-spoken haze.
To touch the gleamings upon this glass is to brush against the fabric of fading echoes, woven through with threads of whisperborne light.