It begins with a note, unseen but felt. Like a whisper in an empty hall, waiting to be joined by its kin. In this place, mirrors bend the truth, stretch shadows between the bars of light, until a symphony of illusions is cast.
I walk through echoes, catching fragments of stories etched in the glass. Their origins murky, the voices soft yet commanding. They speak of a conductor, a shadow in a bowler hat, wielding a baton of shimmering silver.
Time skews in loops, bending inwards like a forgotten dream. A reflection of a reflection, the conductor raises his arms, and the air vibrates. Notes of forgotten laughter, melancholy songs, and whispers of the past follow.
Dance of the invisible, aria of the unheard. I stand in awe, lost in this orchestral riddle that plays behind the looking glass.