Stand before the mirror, void of light, and whisper to its edges. Beneath the surface, where darkness breathes, lies a semblance of time etched in quiet sorrow. Echoes of laughter trickle like moonlight upon a still lake, confused by their own reflection rebounding endlessly.
Once, I saw a figure emerge, faint and fragile as mist. Draped in spectral silk, it reached through the mirror's surface, tracing dreams forgotten by daylight. We spoke in hushed tones, our words woven with threads of velvet night and ancient stars.
The mirror knows all — an artifact of the possible and impossible. It cradles the past's whispers, the future's sighs, and my own breath, too. Here, in this reflection of shadows and light, we exist in mirrored paradox.