在一个阴云密布的黄昏，湿润的空气中弥漫着草木的气息。一条狭窄的小路穿越在荒野之间，两旁是枝条纠缠的古老树林，树叶似乎在无声地低语。微弱的光线透过密集的枝叶洒在泥土上，点点光斑在风的轻拂下摇曳不定。远处，有一座孤独的小屋，烟囱里飘出的袅袅炊烟如同一丝记忆的残余，仿佛在召唤着某个失落的故事，而你却无法触及它的起点。
你缓步走近那座小屋，脚下的土地松软，随着每一步，泥土轻微地弹起，仿佛地面也在记忆的重负下微微颤抖。空气中弥漫着不知名的花香，夹杂着一丝霉味。远离了繁杂的世界，这片寂静中，却又像是某种无形的力量在悄悄逼近，紧紧包围着你。
小屋的窗子破旧，木窗框的油漆早已剥落，露出下面斑驳的木质纹理。窗内，似乎有某种暗影在游移。你忍不住加快步伐，心脏的跳动在耳边回响，甚至让你开始怀疑，这片寂静是否早已被某种久远的记忆所侵占。
突然，一声低沉的嘎吱声打破了沉默，仿佛是木门在无人的操控下轻轻打开。你站住了，目光不自觉地投向那扇门，心中莫名涌起一阵焦虑与好奇。门背后，黑暗似乎在等待着某个答案。
你迈开步伐，推开那扇沉重的木门，门轴发出长长的哀鸣。屋内的空气沉闷，弥漫着发霉的木材与旧纸的气息。四周一片昏暗，唯一的光源是从破碎窗户中透进来的微弱余晖。屋内并无任何家具，只有一张被灰尘覆盖的地毯，仿佛曾经是某个温暖家庭的一部分。你不由自主地俯身，双手触及那块尘封已久的织物，指尖感受到的是岁月的残痕和曾经的温度。
突然，你的眼睛被一处角落吸引，那里有一个小小的木箱，显得与周围的空旷格格不入。箱子的表面陈旧斑驳，上面雕刻着一些模糊不清的符号，像是某种早已被遗忘的语言。你轻轻地打开箱子，心中忽然升起一种无名的恐惧。箱子里静静地躺着一封信，信封上没有任何标记，只有一条被时间腐蚀的红绸带。
你的手微微颤抖，拆开了信封。信纸已经泛黄，字迹模糊，但依然能够辨认出那熟悉的笔迹。那是你父亲的字迹——从未见过的字句：“当你找到这封信时，记住，你并不孤单。这个地方，曾经属于你。”
你的心猛然一震，似乎有某种深藏的记忆在逐渐浮现，而它正紧紧地纠缠着你。当你继续读下去时，字句越来越清晰：“所有的故事，都将在这里开始，永远无法结束。”
你愣在那里，空气突然变得凝重，仿佛整个屋子都开始窒息。那句“所有的故事，都将在这里开始，永远无法结束”像一道无形的锁链，锁住了你的心脏，让你无法动弹。你不禁低头望向信纸，脑海中乱作一团，父亲早已离世，而这封信，显然早在他离开前就已写好。那么，这究竟是怎样的预兆？为什么它在现在出现在你的手中？
忽然，一阵冷风从屋外吹入，窗户微微晃动，随即猛地关上。你转身，感觉到那暗影再次在角落里动了动。不是幻觉，你清晰地看到一双眼睛，深邃如夜，正在静静注视着你。它们没有生气，也没有恶意，仿佛是某种无形的存在在等待着你做出决定。
你小心地走向那眼睛的源头，发现它并非真实的眼睛，而是一面古老的镜子。镜子的表面布满了岁月的痕迹，边缘的铜框已经腐蚀，反射出的光线如同一池死水。你不禁凑近了些，突然，镜中的倒影开始变得模糊，像是烟雾在翻滚，而其中显现出你自己，却又不完全是你。那影像中的你，身穿另一套衣服，眼神冰冷，嘴角带着一丝诡异的笑容。
“你终于来了。” 镜中的你低声说道，声音沙哑，却清晰可辨。
你猛地后退，胸口一阵剧烈的跳动，心脏仿佛要从喉咙里跳出来。镜中的你继续说道：“这是你早已注定的结局。你所寻找的答案，不仅仅是关于你父亲，而是关于你自己的过去。”
这时，你的思绪一片混乱，然而，某种记忆如潮水般涌上心头——那种久远的、你早已遗忘的感觉。你意识到，你从未真正离开过这里。你和这座小屋，和那封信，早已在某种时间的循环中紧密相连。你是被命运所召唤回来，回到这个遗失的地方，去面对曾经未完的故事。
镜中的笑容越来越显得诡异，渐渐地，它变得模糊，而你在镜子中的身影也开始扭曲。你用力抓住镜框，试图挣脱那深邃的幻象，但这时，一阵无法抗拒的力量将你拉入了镜中——如同被吞噬一般。
你失去了知觉，黑暗吞噬了你的一切。许久之后，黑暗中传来一声轻微的叹息。镜面再次恢复了平静，镜中的你，再次回到最初的地方，静静地站在那里，等待着下一个人，来揭开那个不曾结束的谜团。
On a cloud-covered dusk, the moist air is filled with the scent of vegetation. A narrow path winds through the wilderness, flanked by ancient trees whose branches are tangled, their leaves whispering in silence. Faint light filters through the dense foliage, scattering patches on the ground, flickering gently in the breeze. In the distance, a solitary cabin stands with smoke curling softly from the chimney—a wisp of memory, as if calling forth a forgotten tale, one you can sense yet cannot touch the beginning of.
You walk slowly toward the cabin, feeling the soft ground beneath your feet; with each step, the earth slightly gives, as if it too trembles under the weight of memory. The air is infused with an unknown floral scent, tinged with a hint of must. Far from the world’s clamor, this silence surrounds you, yet it feels as if something unseen is quietly pressing in, wrapping itself tightly around you.
The cabin’s window is worn, its wooden frame flaking, exposing weathered grain beneath. Inside, a shadow seems to shift. You quicken your pace, the pounding of your heart echoing in your ears, making you wonder if this silence has long been occupied by some ancient memory.
Suddenly, a low creak pierces the quiet—a door opening gently, as if by unseen hands. You stop, your gaze drawn toward the door, a strange mix of unease and curiosity rising within. Beyond that door, darkness seems to wait with an answer.
You step forward, pushing open the heavy door, its hinges releasing a long groan. The air inside is stifling, heavy with the scent of decaying wood and old paper. The room is dimly lit, the only light seeping through a shattered window, casting a faint glow. There’s no furniture, only a dust-covered rug, a remnant of a time when this place was once warm. Almost instinctively, you kneel, fingers touching the fabric’s long-sealed threads, feeling the remnants of time and once-held warmth.
Suddenly, your gaze catches on something in the corner—a small wooden box, out of place in the emptiness. Its surface is worn, carved with faded symbols, a language perhaps long forgotten. You open the box carefully, a nameless fear stirring within. Inside lies an old letter, unmarked except for a red ribbon, frayed by time.
With trembling hands, you open the letter. The paper has yellowed, the ink faded, yet the handwriting remains recognizable—it’s your father’s, though you’ve never seen these words before: “When you find this, remember, you are not alone. This place once belonged to you.”
Your heart pounds, as if some buried memory is awakening, threading itself around you. As you read further, the words grow clearer: “Every story begins here and will never end.”
You stand frozen, feeling the air thicken as though the entire cabin is closing in on you. That line—“Every story begins here and will never end”—is like an invisible chain, binding your heart, rooting you in place. Staring down at the letter, your mind spins; your father has been gone for years, and yet this letter must have been left long before he passed. What could it possibly mean? Why did it find its way into your hands now?
A chill breeze drifts in, rattling the window, which slams shut. Turning, you sense movement in the corner—a shadow shifting once more. Not a figment of your imagination; you clearly see a pair of eyes, deep as night, observing you. They’re neither alive nor hostile, merely the presence of something unseen, as if waiting for your decision.
Slowly, you approach the source, only to realize they are not eyes but an ancient mirror. Its surface is etched with age, its copper frame corroded, reflecting light like a pool of stagnant water. Leaning closer, you notice the reflection morphing, smoke-like waves swirling within. There, you see yourself, but not quite you—the image stares back, cold-eyed, with a faint, eerie smile.
“You’ve finally arrived,” it says in a raspy voice, though the words are unmistakable.
Your pulse races, chest tightening as if your heart is climbing into your throat. The figure in the mirror continues, “This is the fate set for you. The answers you seek aren’t just about your father; they are the keys to your own past.”
Your mind spins, memories surfacing like waves—lost fragments, long-buried sensations. You realize, you never truly left this place. You, the cabin, and this letter are all woven into a cycle of time, calling you back to face an unfinished story.
The figure’s smile twists, and it begins to fade, your reflection distorting. Grasping the mirror’s edge, you struggle against the dark pull, but a force beyond resistance drags you into its depths—as though swallowed whole.
You lose all awareness as darkness envelopes you. After a long silence, a soft sigh echoes in the black. The mirror’s surface returns to stillness, and there you stand, waiting once again for the next seeker to unravel this never-ending mystery.