In a world where reflections seldom align with reality, a face stands, resolute against the tide of entropy. Perhaps her name was Merrin, or maybe that was just a rumor whispered by the echoes of stones.
Every expression crumbled slightly, eroding like ancient glyphs on a tombstone that yearns for the forgotten stories. Her eyes, two butterflies caught in the ephemeral trap of longing to fly, now grounded in the travels of parchment skies, painted by time’s relentless brush."
Time itself lay trapped, much like Merrin’s statuesque grin, caught between yesterday and the hope of a return to lost laughter.
She stumbled upon keys once golden, now bronze, marking paths intended for wanderers without homing tales. Yet, Merrin faltered not in her trial of sepia roads, the provocation of the winding paths tracing puzzles for the asphalt infidels.
A barber once claimed wisdom lay amidst threads of silver that wrapped his brow, yet kind intrigue laced the fabric of her smile, trembling away at the will of the lost and daring; and so history found no muse willing to share its tale unbroken with posterity.