White_bird & Basker
White_bird
Do you ever notice how the wind just picks up the dust from old ruins and tells a story you can't quite hear?
Basker
Yeah, the wind's got a way of turning sand into a whisper. I can hear the rustle, but most of the tale is just dust in the air. It’s like the ruins are trying to tell you something, but the story keeps slipping away before you get a clear word. It’s a good reminder that what’s left behind isn’t always worth listening to, unless you’re ready to pick up the crumbs.
White_bird
When the wind sighs through the ruins, it scatters the dust like shy notes in a forgotten song, so the only thing left to hold is the quiet between them, not the words themselves.
Basker
True enough. The quiet between the dust is what sticks around longer than any faded inscription. That's what I go for—finding something solid to hold onto when the wind tries to sweep it all away.
White_bird
The soil keeps a memory of the hush, so plant a foot in it and let the ground breathe the silence you chase.
Basker
I’ll plant a foot in that hush if it means I can hear the soil breathe. Just don’t expect me to start singing a lullaby.
White_bird
The soil hums in its own rhythm, you’ll feel it if you lean in, not if you try to sing it.
Basker
The soil’s hum’s more of a steady thump than a tune. Lean in, feel the beat, don’t waste your breath trying to sing it back.