Gazing into the workshop's grimy mirror, dust motes danced lazily in the shaft of light. When you turned away, the world seemed blurred, lost in a haze that mimicked the edges of dreams. But there was a whisper, an echo caught in the glass. Not from another time, but hauntingly familiar.
"Do you remember when the lanterns flickered like stars, and we spoke of things beyond our reach?" The voice held the texture of long-forgotten words, rolling like stones across a riverbed. Each syllable was a note of a melody you forgot how to sing.
You answer, though you know not who listens: “I tried, I always do. The past breathes, it never dies completely.”
Where does the voice lead you? Perhaps another path through familiar shadows.
The reflection shifts, not quite our own. It murmurs secrets of roads less traveled. An invitation, perhaps, to join an unexpected reunion.
And as you step away, you ponder perchance if this echo was lost or merely waiting to be found. To the unseen light that flickers at the edges.