In the rooms where shadows curl and twist like serpents, she remembered everything. Or so she thought. One can never be sure when Time dances on taut strings with her sister, Illusion.
October whispers tell tales of lost echoes, murmurings heard only between mirrors. It is said there are nine infinities within every gaze, where secrets play hide and seek, fleeting as mist across the dawn-kissed lake.
"Do you recall the garden of glass?" A voice aksed. The voice belonged somewhere, perhaps nowhere—a trick of senses known only through longing eyes that peered beyond reality's veneer. "I was never there," she replied, though the roses remembered their names in her heart.
Once, a page from the book of forgotten names found its way north, where the winds sleep beneath boreal canopies. Nonetheless, inked nothings write fears over the horizons, and days fold into dreams not meant for waking.
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