As the moonlight filtered through the dusty window, the reflection in the glass was not hers. It was a visage from another time, another place. She stared into the mirror, and the echo of her own breath sounded like the howl of distant orbs.
"They howl in the shadows," she whispered. "But why do I see them when the night is silent?"
Once, long ago, she had been told tales of the howling orbs by a voice that seemed both familiar and foreign, as if spoken by someone who had walked beneath the same stars long before her. The stories were warnings, perhaps, or maybe omens of something greater and more profound. They spoke of voices that lingered at the edge of dreams, of feline specters that roamed the twilight with eyes like molten gold.
In the quietude of her room, surrounded by the gentle purring of her cat, the line between reality and reflection blurred. She could almost believe the tales. Almost.
Follow the whispering winds, she mused, as if the path were laid out before her. The orbs pulsed in a silent rhythm, a dance of shadows beneath the moon.
If only the mirror could tell the truth of what lies beyond the veil, in the lands where dreams turn to dusk.