Falling. Not in fear, but in a gravity of thoughts uncontained. Here, mirrors shimmer with memories, over and over.
You enter, each step deepening a lingering echo, emptying a pocket of space-time. There is a noise — a constant hum. Perhaps it is your own heartbeat, reverberating through these hollow corridors.
Indentations on the walls might form familiar patterns, forming in circles, or perhaps they elongate into realities not yet dreamt.
Keep walking. The light that never appears is rumored, perhaps, an echo itself:
Does the descent remind you of a childhood game, navigating flashlight beams in a basement full of unrecognizable shadows?
You find a small crack, welcoming winds that carry stories from the beyond, stories half-told, now slowly melding into one's own essence.