Whispers creep along the edges of consciousness. Each shadow, a reminder; each silence, a prelude to chaos. What if the mirror reflects more than just flesh and silhouette, a gateway stitched from fears?
The ticking of an unseen clock, each sound imbued with foreboding. What haunts the corridors of your mind when the lights flicker? Disjointed thoughts flit like moths—too close, yet never touching.
In stillness, a shudder of intuition guides the way. Scared, yes, but reverberating with a primal curiosity. Might the fear unveil hidden paths rather than obscure them?
It is said that the heartbeats echo louder when isolation embraces you. Stripped of armor, merely a being defined by its own bashful shadows.