Murmurs in the Echo of Glass

The mirror whispered yesterday in a voice unheard between the ticking of clocks, fragments worn like sea glass engraved by tides of silence.

"Remember the sky's laughter, before it cracked and rain danced with shadows?"

Only those who wander in the edge between dusk and dawn know the stories shadows tell when the world holds its breath.

Footfalls on the cold marble beneath, echoes of voices stitched into the seams of forgotten nights.

"Did you hear the murmur of relics beneath your skin?"

In shadows' embrace, the relics sing a distant lullaby, a melody woven from the strands of time.

Between the mirrors, in the spaces not yet spoken, lies the truth of shadows—untouched, unwritten, a tapestry of sighs.

"They don't see us, hiding in the folds of reality."

Murmurs run along the corridors of glass, where every reflection holds a tale untold, every shimmer a dream half-remembered.