Welcome, the door squeaks a greeting you once knew.
A whisper trails your gaze as you descend where footsteps
cease to shatter silence, holding hands with shadows.
Upon the time-weathered stone rests a mirror, fractured but whole. Systematic patterns dance there detachedly—an echo spun with no origin, a thread tufted and pulling.
They say laughter can pierce wrought-iron veils, rendering curtailed spirits undone. Yet, the horizon bleeds crimson where no sun bears witness; just echoes, which herald midnight chants sacrament and foreign.
Whispers from the Past