In the labyrinth of echoing whispers, beneath the cascade of twilight:
The shadow stands, but does not recognize itself—
A question, perhaps?
In a realm where every light bends.
Voices—no voices—formulate, unravel, and intertwine like threads:
Each variable, a fleeting shadow, enchants the observer.
A mirror, maybe?
Is found in the grasp of the intangible.
Listen closely, heart of stone, to the silence beneath the words—
The whispers dance, creating shapes that once were not.
A touch, then?
A phantom echo of what could be.