Whispers linger in shadows, bouncing like sound against a fractured existence. A mirror, the guardian of truth and lied reflections, holds not the image but the essence yet to arrive.
"What makes you think you exist?" it asks, each syllable echoing in spirals, wrapping around your thoughts like vines in forgotten gardens. A mind reels, wondering whether the self is merely a trick of light flickering in the dark.
Tread carefully, for each step taken may plunge you sideways; time may unravel like the fabric of a sweater, each thread an alternate past, leaden with choices unmade.
In the silent halls of your desires, figures flicker, casting glances that hold too much weight. Did you tell them you would be back? Will they remember the version of you that met them amidst the echoes of forgotten laughter?
An echo of silence waits beyond the veil, beckoning those brave enough to peer once more into the looking glass.
There exists a revelation—sometimes unseen—clinging to the corners of consciousness. A fragment of a ghost, perhaps, or merely memory’s way of guarding what was lost?