In shadowy corridors where whispers take refuge, a dark figure recounts tales of fleeting pasts.
Once, amidst a canopy of dust and forgotten echoes, there lay a mansion, its walls entwined with sorrowful ivy. The stories told of moments suspended in time, unraveling in ethereal silences. One could hear the lament of the forsaken souls beneath each creaking floorboard.
The mirror reflects not what is, but what could be—distorted shapes and unspoken words etch themselves into one's mind, a reflection more honest than any spoken truth. Be wary, for in its depths lie revelations too profound for daylight.
A shadow slips through the archways where roses bleed black. Each petal a memory, each thorn a conscious guilt.