In the corridor of mirrors, you catch your reflection, but it’s not quite you. It's a whisper, a flicker, a half-forgotten memory of a hairpin turn taken long ago.
The mirror laughs with a voice like thunder in a kaleidoscope. It echoes the laughter of a stranger who knows too much yet speaks so little.
A reflection of a reflection shows a world where the trees grow upside down, and the sky is a shimmering sea.
Underneath the mirror glass, buried whispers speak of truths that refuse to center, always pivoting, always elusive.