In the quiet corners of forgotten towns, a place exists where souls linger. As the sun sets casting shadows like old friends, I find myself here again. The mirror of souls is not a mirror in the traditional sense; it reflects not the outer but the inner — every shred of joy and trail of sorrow etched into the fabric of my being.
Every version of me that looks back from this mystical glass tells a story. There's a child running barefoot through the fields, longing for adventure. A weary traveler rests under the shade of trees, seeking solace in solitude. Each reflection feels real, like a heartbeat echoing in an endless chamber.
This mirror speaks in whispers, not words, and its secrets are known only to those who have dared to peer into eternity. As I stand before it, pieces of me scatter like autumn leaves carried by the wind. Do I gather them, or allow the breeze to choose my path? That decision remains an unanswered question, a gentle ache in the heart.
Life flows like a river, and I, like a stone smoothed by relentless currents. What did the water carry away, and what did it leave behind? Perhaps a part of me always knew, but here, there's comfort in the unknown.
Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after, you, too, will visit the Display of Echoes, where fractured dreams find their place among the stars. Until then, remember, every mirror holds a story, and every story is a reflection of what we yearn to become.