The world begins in darkness. A soft hum vibrates through the air, steady, low, and haunting.

A long, endless corridor of mirrors stretches into the unknown, each mirror fractured and trembling under some unseen weight. Every shard reflects the same man—but different: younger, older, joyful, grieving. His face carries the heavy marks of choices he cannot undo.

His footsteps echo against the cold floor as he walks, slow and hesitant. His eyes dart between the shifting reflections, searching for answers—but finding only echoes of himself.

“I built this place to feel whole again. To create something that mattered. But mostly… I built it for her.”

The corridor is only a part of a much larger maze. Twisting walls and dimly lit halls stretch in every direction like veins under fragile skin. The air is thick and heavy, sweet with a scent just out of reach. Memories flicker across the walls—scenes of love, loss, regret—disappearing like smoke before they can be grasped.

Far ahead, a faint glow pulses in the gloom, pulling him deeper into the labyrinth.

As he walks, the maze becomes more alive, more unsettling. The walls groan and breathe with every step. Green and brown vines, damp and twisting, creep along the walls and ceiling—slowly growing, slowly reaching. Their tendrils pulse with a life of their own, wrapping around mirrors, clutching at corners, consuming whatever they touch.

Neon signs flicker among the vines with sharp, cruel messages:
“You can’t fix this.”
“You’re not enough.”
“Go back.”

Without warning, a flock of dark birds cuts through the murk, their feathers soaked in shadow. Each carries a dim lantern swinging from its beak, casting trembling lights onto the vines and shifting walls. Their flight is silent but urgent, the brief flashes of light revealing paths both inviting and dangerous.

The man follows, heart racing, doubt heavy in his chest.

“They told me if I just kept walking, the answers would come. But the farther I went, the more I realized… I wasn’t chasing answers. I was chasing her.”

The air thickens, turning into a swirling fog that clings to him like a second skin, heavy and suffocating. From the mist, whispers curl into his ears—gentle, sweet, full of beautiful lies:
“You’ve done enough.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Stay here. Rest.”

The man falters. The whispers are soft, almost loving. The vines around him twitch, sensing his hesitation. But something colder stirs inside him, something real.

He forces himself onward, each step dragging through the mist, vines brushing his shoulders, the path behind him slowly being swallowed whole.

The fog parts, reluctantly, revealing the heart of the maze: The Parlor.

A warm, golden light spills from its doorway, an invitation both beautiful and unsettling. The room feels familiar—like a dream half-remembered through a veil.

Inside, the parlor is cozy but hollow. Plush chairs faded to ghostly gray. A fire flickers low, casting long, broken shadows.  Vines snake along the walls and ceiling here too, slowly creeping, as if determined to claim even this last refuge.

Old photographs hang in crooked frames, the faces inside them blurred and fading, disappearing like breath on glass.

At the center of the room, a single chair waits.

The man pauses. It is the chair from his childhood—the one he once sat in to dream of endless possibilities before time taught him otherwise.

Beyond the chair, the kitchen breathes. Plates sit untouched, intricate and haunting. Each one a tribute—desserts adorned with flowers she loved, meals rich with the spices of laughter long gone.

He picks up a plate. His hands tremble.

“I thought if I made something beautiful enough, she’d find her way back to me. That if I poured my heart into every dish, she’d taste it—wherever she was. I thought love could be summoned with a recipe.”

He sets the plate down and lowers himself into the chair, exhaustion folding him into its grasp. The fire crackles weakly, but the warmth feels thinner now, almost borrowed.

Slowly, the room begins to change.

The fire dims to ash. The photographs vanish into blankness. The golden light fades into something cold and brittle. The vines creep further into the room, wrapping around the edges of the hearth, the corners of the chair. The parlor itself begins to tremble, rejecting him, as if tired of the delusion it was asked to hold.

The man’s eyes snap open. Panic claws at his chest. The whispers return, sharp and desperate:
“Stay here. This is where you belong.”

But the illusion has cracked.

He stands. The chair creaks under the sudden shift.

Through the crumbling walls, glimpses of the outside world break through—vast, unknown, alive.

He turns to the kitchen one last time. His gaze lingers on the plates, the colors now muted, the memories they held drifting like smoke.

He sees the truth now: they were never promises. They were only memories. Gifts to himself, created in grief.

“I stayed too long, trying to bring her back. I thought I was creating something for her. But I was only hiding from the truth. She’s gone.”

He moves to the doorway, hands brushing the worn frame.

Faint light leaks through the cracks in the boarded windows, illuminating the tools of his obsession—the recipes, the journals, the hollow ingredients that never could heal what was lost.

The vines recoil slightly, sensing his resolve.

He steps into the doorway. The cool air greets him like an old friend.

He looks back once—at the parlor swallowed by vines, the last flicker of the hearth dying behind him.

In the shadows, something small glimmers. It isn’t the weight of sorrow anymore. It’s the fragile spark of something new. Something real. It does not beg. It simply waits.

The man exhales, sharp and clear, and steps into the open air.

The door creaks but stays ajar, a final memory.
The fog drifts away into the morning light, carrying one final thought:

“There are still stories to tell.”