"Ah, wind songs, you sly tricksters," the mirror quipped, "you think you're the only ones who can howl and hum around corners?"
It continued, polishing its own ego, "Last night, I caught the ghost of your uncle dancing in my reflection. He has better moves than you do, kiddo."
A slight breeze rustled through the room, tickling the edges of the mirror's frame. "Winds can't talk, but they can carry secrets," it whispered, "like the time you tried to serenade a squirrel."

The mirror's surface shimmered. "Ever wondered why birds laugh when you sing?" it teased, "They hold auditions in trees, and you didn't make the cut."
Shadows of past conversations flitted across its glassy surface, echoes of laughter, and whispers of dreams. "Here’s a tip: next time, sing facing the wind, less chance of embarrassment."
"And remember," it chimed, "the best wind songs are those that have no lyrics, just like my favorite reflection—silent, enigmatic, and slightly smug."