"Transitory moments," she mused, gazing at the shadow play on the wall, (A flickering candle casting doubts).
"Is the essence of these shadows? They speak, yet no words linger," he replied, fingers tracing a path through the darkness.
In silence, they both understood: "To listen is to become one with the unseen." — A truth as old as the moon's reflection.
[The shadows flicker, a dance only the wise can comprehend.]
Further explorations lead us to the intersection: echoes and origins, where light meets the oblivion's edge.
Sometimes mirrors are but voids, reflecting nothing, absorbing everything. In the corridors of this shadowed realm, we wander, seeking meaning in the transient dance of twilight.