A whisper of something past brushes by..
Once, there was an old hallway, like so many there are, somewhere almost forgotten... The lamps flickered dimly there, casting ephemeral shadows against the wallpaper peeling beneath time's tireless hands. As _I stepped_ forward, shoes cracked with _violently beautiful suspicion_, phantom footsteps matched my ambling cadence. But did they echo that way because they were mine?
The mirrors—grand, chic, opulent—lined the space beside worn carpet, each reflecting but adding an indefinable echo. In one I glimpsed a fleeting scene, not mine –— perhaps _my reflection_ long retuned the chatelaine's secrets of erstwhile conquest?