The mist hung heavy that day; an uninvited veil that softened the starkness of reality. I walk, I think, I stumble...

Once upon a time, in a realm where the echoes of laughter were mistaken for music, I found myself lost in corridors of uncertainty. The truth is, truth is ugly. It creeps, it crawls, like the mist on hands, like whispers in forgotten alleys. Echoes tell tales they shouldn't.

I touch the walls, cold, damp, rough. They resonate with my touch, a symphony of solitude. The rain, if it is rain, mingles with the fog, or is it just tears from a sky that understands the weight of burdens? Rain cannot wash away what is buried deep.

Sometimes the truth is not a thing to see, but a thing to feel. In the mist, the world is blurred, but the heart knows the contours of pain, the jagged edges of reality. And I breathe, deeply, the air thick with the scent of what could be, or perhaps what never was. Breath mingles with the past, and the past is a thief.

I remember faces I don't recognize, voices that murmur in shadows, like a lullaby for the forsaken. And in this mist, I find refuge, a sanctuary of silence, where the truths I hide find form and substance. The ugliest truth is the one that reflects back in the mist, a mirror to the soul. Mirror of regret.

And as I walk, the ground beneath shifts, a subtle movement that hints at an awakening, or perhaps a slumber. Awake and alone, I tread these paths with care, for each step is a choice, each choice a truth waiting to be uncovered, or wrapped in mist once more.