In the glass of the broken hour, shadows stretch their legs, lingering on yesterday's whispers, dancing to a melody only half remembered.
The forest sighs, and the leaves murmur secrets of ancient pathways long forsaken, where footsteps once echoed in rhythms of infinite déjà vu.
A clock ticks in reverse behind closed doors, where mirrors talk in tongues of light, revealing truths unseen, held in delicate balance by fragile dreams woven at twilight.
Half-painted corridors lead to rooms that smell of time's forgotten perfume, where stories blend and bend, twisting like serpents in the mist, yet never quite told.