Onward (or maybe backward), walked Oswald in an indigo haze, searching for something that slipped through fingers time untangled. The mirror spoke first: "What does the lunatic see, O mirror of void and light?"
Nothing, yet everything, whispering hollow secrets in spaces between breaths.
When reflections flickered unto one another—like dancing lucifers kindled unto mischief—Oswald found solace in the lunatic's yammer. All mirrors were false brethren, cunning chapels of light-curved glass. What did they see that we cannot? Or would not, mayhap?
Echo Chamber | Hollow Secrets