Through the heavy fog, an echo calls your name not once, but thrice. The chilling winds weave tales of old and the cobbled paths speak not of journeys taken, but of shadows that linger long after footsteps fade. Here in this desolated route, the specter of a route seems a guide or a trickster, its laughter caught in mirrors adorned with tarnish and tears.
In the glass, an image flickers; perhaps a past unknown or a future forgotten. The mirror conducts a silent symphony of whispers, where every note is a memory that does not belong to you yet feels like a hauntingly familiar dream. Observe, if you dare, the reflections of forgotten souls wandering through the gothic corridors of this place.
Visitations at the hour when the veil is thin, seeking solace in shadows that dance like flames against the cold walls of this abandoned route. They say mirrors are portals, but to what? The souls seek departure, yet the shadows route their presence within gleaming surfaces that border between night and oblivion.