"In the mirror, I see not just my face but the whispers of your touch, lingering like a forgotten song."
If whispers had color, they'd be the shade of your smile, painting reflections that breathe with the hue of uncertainty.
Beneath every glance exchanged in parallel worlds, a soft echo beckons.
Unmapped, where shadows converge and diverge, footprints descend into mystery. Are they mine? Yours? Perhaps, the traveler has no destination.
"The footprints lead nowhere, yet everywhere," the shadow said, stepping lightly on paths not yet taken.