One whispers secrets to the standing glass, echoes haunting the silence. A face never seen but known all too well, gazes back with trust unbroken. "Dance upon the fringes," it murmurs, its breath a spectral wisp curling into mist.
Shadows spin tales of forgotten realms beneath chandelier's glow. Countless eyes peer through silken veils of time's unraveling skein. "Follow the light," they whisper, voices ethereal, coming from corridors of ancient stone.
Underneath the crimson moon, a figure lingers in the periphery. The glass is a door, the keeper a shade, keeper of dreams unthreaded. "Whitherward," it questions, "to the dawn or the dusk of your echoing soul?"
Whispering Dreams | Flemish Crimson