In the hollow echo of midnight, where every whisper becomes a shadow's delight, stood the first of many mirrors, each reflecting not one's face but one's fate.
Other visions were mere lies wrapped in silver threads spun by forgotten gods. Peculiar they seemed, these glimpses, tracing over the endless tapestry formless yet colored vivid by the hues of despair and dreams lost to time's cruel embrace.
They laughed in the mirror, the forgotten voices of ancient poets standing guard in perpetuity. "Join us," they beckoned with fingers like smoke, "in the realms of echoes where silence reigns supreme."
Unfurl the Layers