In shadows profound, a story untold, Flickers the silent frame, mirror, behold. He enters slowly—our nameless shade, Cloaked in secrets, ruefully played.

His reflection in the glass, a whisper cold, "Be still, my haunt; see what is foretold." Through tungstic glow, silent voices parade, The mirror foils him, a masquerade.

The frame quivers—it speaks without heed, Revealing naught from the rivers of the damned. Faint are the echoes of cries unheard, Yet in the shadows, destinies are blurred.