In the dim corridors of the mind, where shadows stretch and seem to linger longer than they ought, an echo rings. A whisper of a time that never was, yet it is, held by the spine of reality like a faded photograph in an unlit room. Here, in the gothic embrace of twilight, the veil between the seen and the unseen grows thin.
A voice calls from behind the mirror, a reflection of what could have been. "Have we not walked this path, beneath the martyrdom of an indifferent moon?" The question floats, indefinable and haunting. With each step, the cobblestones tremble beneath the weight of a thousand untold stories, each echoing the steps of those who came before, and those who will come again.
The air is thick with the scent of forgotten roses, wilting yet eternally present in their melancholic bloom. A book lies open on the table, its pages worn and whispering secrets known only to those who dare to listen. "Do I know you?" you murmur into the silence, to which the silence, as always, knows no answer.
"Would you care for a cup of tea?" the voice asks, though you see no source for it, no shadow lends credence to the query. Yet, somehow, you are sure, it is a question asked before, in another life or perhaps this very one, just out of reach.