In the hushed corridors of time's gentle embrace, where whispers of the ancients cling to the autumn air, the mirror reveals not the face, but the essence. Behind the cold sheen of glassy secrets, there lies a door framed in willow wisps. These keys, wrought from celestial whispers, chime a tune only the heart understands.
Glimpse the hollow visage, an echo of self, trapped in an eternal waltz. Speak gently, and it answers only in sighs. The keys it guards are not forged in metal, but in memories, dreams long forgotten, and shadows that dance lightly upon the edge of dawn.