In the shivering glass, reflections whisper, tales stitched in twilight's fragile silence. Echoes, echoes, in the mirror's womb, a delicate labyrinth of unspoken dreams.
Distant voices, fading like breath on winter's pane, murmur in the labyrinth of the mind. What song do they sing, woven from shadows? A dirge, a lullaby, or the wind's weeping?
"What is this sound?" they ask the silvered void. Dreams dissolve like morning mist, and the mirror sleeps, a watchful guardian of sepulchral serenades sung by the past.
Follow the echoes—a song of yesterday, where every note is a forgotten tear, lost in the enigma of sound.
Or seek clarity in luminescent waves, where whispers turn to light, dissolving the haunted reflections.
Return to the vessel of silence, where the mirror waits, suspended in a timeless echo.