In the corners of the mirror, where the glass meets the frame, dust gathers like old memories. I see more than my reflection; I see the echoes of moments untaken. A shadow hints at a path that once rippled with vines, now dormant and forgotten.

Do the mirrors reflect my intentions, or merely my surface? As I peer deeper, the haunting question looms: what would the silent foliage whisper, if only it could speak of the lives lived beside its twisting embrace?

...and when the night has settled, and the world quiets to a lull, I hear the rustle, a soft sigh. Is it the wind, or is the mirror breathing, revealing glimpses of other selves, walking among the vines?

Seek further: The Widdershins Path or perhaps Voices of the Undergrowth.