Cleo & Basker
Basker
You ever heard a rusted machine sing? I’ve been digging through an old engine, listening to the way its gears creak like a stanza, and I swear it’s telling a story. How do you see the beauty in something that’s just gone quiet?
Cleo
Cleo
I hear it, too— the quiet pulse of the rusted gears like a sigh in the wind.
When the machine stops, it doesn’t just end; it holds its breath, keeping the song of the last turn inside its metal heart.
The silence is a canvas, and every creak is a brushstroke of memory, a quiet poem that only the quiet can read.
Basker
The rusted gears? They’re just old bones that still remember how to move. If you pause long enough, you hear the last breath of them. And if you let that quiet fill the space, you might catch the song that never really stopped.
Cleo
That’s exactly how I feel when I sit by a broken clock— each tick is a memory that lingers even after the hands have stopped. The quiet is not emptiness; it’s the room where the last breath of the gears settles, and if you listen close enough you hear the echo of their song, a soft lullaby that never really left the air.
Basker
Sounds nice, but don’t let that quiet turn into a trap. A broken clock is like a quiet friend that can bite if you get too close to its secrets.
Cleo
I know that warning, and I think it’s a quiet reminder that even beauty can be a little sharp. So I keep my distance, let the silence settle, and remember that every song has a pause. That way I hear the music without getting lost in the echo.