the air, a palpable mixture of memory and mirage. Do they remember the whispers when the wind hums its ancient song? Notes scattered like unclaimed heirlooms, binding nothing but solitude.

The sound of ocean waves breaking upon a shore that never was feels like a forgotten promise. A child's laughter dances within it, a ghost from future's past.

A clock ticks in reverse, unraveling cords of time. Each tick a reminder of a something never done, a something always intended. The clock stopped, but the intention was never its own.

Windows to nowhere, glimpses of paths not taken. Are they doors or mirrors? Perhaps both, perhaps neither. Reflections of reflections, whispers of whispers.