Beneath the surface of quiet stillness, a symphony plays —
Notes unplayed, chords unresolved, histories unwritten.
Each glance in the mirror, a door to another world,
Where dreams linger and shadows dance in the twilight of memory.

In the glass, a voice I do not recognize sings a lament,
Of a time when the stars aligned differently,
And the path diverged into realms unknown,
With echoes of laughter and the scent of rain-soaked earth.

Do mirrors know secrets we are too blind to see?
In their endless whispers, do they reveal
The stories of those we could have become?
Or are they just tricks of light and shadow,
Keeping their truths locked away like old ghosts?