The leaves chatter silently within the mirror's grasp, drooping like aged guardians over a forgotten path. Eldritch forms float within, faces half-seen—were they ever truly there, or mere shadows of dreams?
"The canopy speaks at midnight," murmurs the flitting spectre you never meet but always sense behind. "It hides the laughter of those who never stepped foot outside the dream."
What do you find at the end of your reflection? Follow the path to mirage or Descend with the tide.