In the shadowy hallways of the mind, the sculptures stand still—guardians of whispers untold, yearning for a voice.
A mirror, cracked and ancient, reveals not the present, but a moment caught between breaths, a glimpse of what was, and what could never be.
Do you hear the clinking of chains that bind the echoes to the floor, woven from threads of silver moonlight? They speak of stories unmarked, unremembered.
Where the forest meets the horizon, a figure carved from mist gestures, silently pleading with an unseen audience.
"Are you me, or something I left behind?" the mirror asks, its voice a tremor in the air as if fear concealed its truth.
A sphere of glass, polished by dreams, holds a single tear—the memory of laughter, bathing in the light of an unknown dawn.
The sculpted hand, reaching imploringly, seems to breathe, its fingers dancing to melodies no one knows anymore.
A shadow behind you, but is it yours or a companion lost to time? The question lingers like fog over a desolate sea.
In the distance, a child's giggle echoes, suddenly fading, calling forth specters of innocence untouched by age.
"The past does not thank you for its existence," replies the mirror, as it swallows light.