The road bent not with the shifting of asphalt, but a deliberate illusion, crafting snickers from shadows. Here, whispers gathered, not to echo but to fracture into shimmering illusions that slipped beyond grasp. Chase the echo if you dare, or watch as the void consumes it laughingly.
In the dusty alcove within the mind, an old woman speaks in riddles—each word a drowning promise of light unseen. Yet still, her eyes sparkle with mischief unmatched under the half-light of the lamp. "Look beyond," she suggests, her voice riding on phantoms, "and what you see might not be what you believe."