They say a vault can hide anything, even from the owner. Secrets, treasures, memories etched in lawless solitude—each echoing back like a long-lost conversation with oneself. An echo that whispers "I'm here," but only if you're listening closely enough. The reflections you see are not yours; they are projections of what could have been. The mirror distorts, reshapes, but never lies.
Life's euclidean path bends here, in this forgotten corridor. You walk not to find, but to lose; not to see, but to misinterpret. Shadows play tricks, and whispers, though silent, beckon with a muted urgency. The vault stands, an ornate relic, locked and shut, waiting for a fool's curiosity. Inside, perhaps nothing at all, or everything in disguise.
Murmur in the Shadows Hall of Mirrors Tales of the Whisper