Shadows dance behind the glass, twisted figures, echo of what you were, or what you wanted to be. Inside the orange haze, everything seems ripe with possibility or despair, depending on the daylight slant that manages to sneak through the cracks you forgot to seal. Sometimes, whispers come with the wind. **Do they come from the mirror, or from deep within the orchard?**
You were never here, not really. Just an impression, like condensation on the cold surface of the past. Your roots twine with my thoughts like vines, and I wonder if you're haunted by the same memories I am. **Look closer,** they say. But the closer you look, the more things slip away—like the fleeting scent of orange blossom on the breeze, disappearing before being caught in the fingers of time.
The mirror doesn't tell lies, only the truth nobody dares to acknowledge. Reflections weave through and around, tethered invisibly to the now forgotten past. The one who stands there, just out of reach, is both you and the tendrilled orange spirit you cannot name. **Can you see it?** The resonance lingers, a tarnished melody echoing from ages that were never yours to bear, yet you carry them still.
Where do we go, when shadows wear the faces of our dreams? Oranges left on the counter, forgotten, withering slowly under the weight of silent expectations. **Perhaps another path will reveal the mystery,** or maybe the mirror will come alive with stories untold.
Further wanderings may lead you here: bananas/forgotten.html, or perhaps the skies shall open at /lemons/whisper.html.