Echoes

Every step I take returns to me twice. The walls are listening, the corridors hum. I speak, and my voice comes back warped, stranger than I remember. In this place, you cannot tell what is yours and what belongs to the echo. Some whispers comfort, others taunt, but all of them linger— ghosts with my face, my laughter, my fear. The labyrinth is never empty. It only sounds like me. © Datbrodaman