In the realm where light is but a whisper,
Shadows stitch together echoes of forgotten verses.
There lies a mirror, not of glass,
But woven from threads of midnight secrets.
Touch it, they say, and see yourself --
But know, the reflection is not kind, nor true.
Across the surface,
A face not yours gazes back,
Wreathed in the fog of unshed fears.
Once you step beyond,
There is no return,
Just whispers in the void, waiting.