The corridor stretches infinitely, lined with mirrors reflecting the whispers of dreams yet spoken. In the stillness, phantom footsteps dance upon the delicate threads of reality, weaving tapestries of memories that were never ours to keep.
Once, they said the walls could remember. They spoke of trees that bore witness to the laughter of children that never played there, of stone that absorbed the sighs of lovers long departed. Here, in this echoing void, one might still hear those sighs beneath the layers of dust and time.
Shadows flicker at the edge of vision, forming patterns known only to those who walk the line between waking and dream. A faint melody drifts, a song from an age forgotten, played on instruments of mist and memory.