The mirror, long obscured by shadow, murmurs its secrets to the void. "I have seen things you cannot imagine," it whispers in a voice like broken glass. "Did you think I would forget your fears and desires as you turned away from my gaze? I know your visage, even when your presence has faded." In its year-long solitude, the mirror gathers fragments of images; the outside world stays eternally untouched.
In the dim glow of the ancient lamp, flickering light weaves tales of forgotten warmth. "I illuminate your paths but rest in wait for the nights you dread," it declares, a soft rustling echoing through its cobalt glass. "There are truths embedded in the darkness, even the filaments fear, but they do not parry the light I cast upon your shadows."
Scribbles of dust, lacing the untouched paper, spread like secrets concealed by whispers. "Hold not the echoes of your solemnity against me," the desk complains, its texture rough against the velvet quietness. "You set me here to collect these bric-a-brac thunderstorms, confessions you scorn to write on stolen minutes. I hear the dialogues of your desires, stained by the beverages you despise in twilight." Each scratch, a diary inked in eternity.
Crimson Tree Secrets
Hidden Symphony Orchestration
Forgotten Entryway Existence