The echoes came before the whispers, before the silk snare of dawn folded shadows into the known unseen. Abu heard the murmurs drift in from mirrored voids, segments of truths unfurling like old parchment soaked in maroon riddle ink.
In the third chamber, a lone mirror remained, untouched by the hint of breathe or time's elusive shuck. The faces in its glass danced between tomorrow's forgotten notes and yesterday’s ashes, an ensemble to a dirge only Abu could hear.
Dreams monolithic in their simplicity, stitched with the seams of void and light, beg shapes along the periphery—keys that twist languages into the elder tongue spoken by wanderers beneath fevered stars.
Somewhere, the dew on mirrored grass whispered secrets to the wind, tales of flight beyond the edge of night. Remnants of songs unsung pooled like silver drops in a glass horizon.
Discover the Silent Windows