The walls are not what they seem, crumbling beneath the weight of dampened echoes. Listen closely; a melody of secret notes slips through the cracks like sand through fingers, weaving tales only shadows dare to tell.
In the dead of night, when the clocks dare not tick, the whispers call your name. They dance through hallways lined with mirrors that reflect not your face, but the faces of what has been - and what may yet be.
Conspiratorial nodes flicker in the dark, a web spun of spectral light, weaving connections known and unknown, marking paths through the mist with an unseen hand. Trust not the silken threads, for they harbor truths that tremble beyond comprehension.
Are the whispers your own, or do they speak of realms parallel, where choices diverge and converge in the murmur of lost time? Here, in the ethereal haze, the answer is but a fleeting shadow, just beyond the reach of certainty.