There were once stories whispered about the corridor of reflections. The tales were too strange, too peculiar to believe—yet, they lingered, like the phantom footsteps that danced unseen upon the cold marble floor.
One moonlit night, I found myself alone in that corridor. Anticipation gripped my heart not unlike the chill of an autumn breeze. As I stepped forward, the mirrors lining the walls began to shimmer, revealing faces that were not my own.
"Who are you?" I whispered, entranced by the silent symphony of reflections. The answer danced just outside my grasp, like a dream fading at dawn. In that moment, I realized the truth of the tales: mirrors are not mere glass; they are gateways to the stories we fear to tell.
Would you dare follow? Step into theories of light or wander through the hidden halls. Each turn a shadow, every path a voice.
And as you look back, remember: the footsteps are not always behind you.