In the moonlit chamber behind the ancient wooden door, the crystal chandelier whispered its tales. "Secrets of the glass", it murmured, "are not merely reflections of light—they hold shadows of forgotten whispers, echoes of lives unlived.”
Mirrors Edges know of the nightmarish secrets held by the vases, their floral prison eternal. "They see everything," the chandelier trembled, "yet cannot speak until dusk beckons and the wind howls through shattered panes."
In the corners, enchanted embers flickered ominously, guarding the tales of the glass goblets, which once brimmed with elixirs of the forbidden. Their voices, a mere whisper against the creeping shadows, told of illicit rendezvous and broken promises, echoing through the night.
Hear the whispers. Heed the warnings of the windows, which remember the faces of all who passed beyond their frames, leaving behind only fragmented dreams and silent cries. For in the stories of glass, truths lie buried deeper than the roots of time itself.