Once upon a time, in the hush of a forgotten evening, the melody began to play. It twined through the corridors of memory, an old record, its needle poised eternally on the groove, repeating, looping, a phantasmal dance of notes.
She remembered the first note, a whisper of a clarinet, echoing in a spiraled stairway lit by the ghostly glow of chandeliers. Each step was a page in a story untold, each note a stitch in a tapestry of sound unwoven.
Then came the piano, chiming in with an unresolved chord, lingering like a question never attributed an answer, and yet its purpose was certainty, not inquiry. The song wove through the air, mesmerizing, magic in repetition.
In the room of mirrors, the reflections danced in synchrony with an unseen partner, an airy terminal of sound devoid of time. The brass section joined, bold and brassy, their voices proclaiming an era of forgotten tales.
As the pieces fell into place, she saw herself, once, twice, thrice—a reflection of a reflection of a reflection. The walls sighed with every crescendo, each pause a breath held in ancient reverie. Loop upon loop, the symphony played on.
Beyond the door, another corridor awaited, drenched in the rich timbre of strings—the violin's lament, serene and sorrowful. Would she follow where the melody led, or would she remain, a ghost among ghostly echoes?