In the shadowed corridors, whispers shadow the shadows, enfolding silence in a misty embrace. The paths twist, never ending, ever beginning. Once more, the whispers call — calling from no place, everywhere, enveloping the heart in a binding mist. There is a door thee will find, but it holds no key. The key is within, is without — is everywhere. Whispering shadows, shadowed whispers.
Step lightly, for each echo is a step taken thrice. Shadows bend, then break, and once more bend, as if captured by a dance unseen. Do you feel it drawing closer? The labyrinth weaves a tale. And thus the tale weaves — shadow into shadow, whisper into whisper, an endless song. The song is a silence that speaks, both loud and soft.
You pause at the mirror, not seeing your face, not seeing another. The reflections twist in whispers, in shadows, eternally gazing, perceiving nothing, perceiving everything. There, within the looking glass, a path unfurls like a dream, like a thought unbidden. Follow, but heed not the end, for beginnings are everywhere in the labyrinth.
With each step, you draw closer to the heart of this enigma. Shadows whisper of forgotten names, mystery wrought in mystery. Time is but another shadow, another whisper, and as you tread the paths unseen, the labyrinth breathes, a living testament to the art of shadows. The entrance is an echo, the exit a dream.