The mirror does not show what is, but what could have been. A whisper, a glance, an echo of winds long ceased.
What resides here—do you see it? No, the sands obscure. They trickle through fingers and flesh alike.
A ghost of laughter, of sorrow, of moments wedged in the crevices, pushing through the glass.

Fleeting Mirage whispers secrets beneath the surface.
Paths Once Walked, now only shadows dance where light once played.
Reflections in Ephemeral Waves, a cycle repeats.