Sovushka & Bloom
Bloom
Hey Sovushka, have you ever noticed how the evening shadows seem to whisper stories of forgotten seasons? There's a quiet rhythm to them that feels both like a secret poem and a map of something ancient. What do you think?
Sovushka
I do feel that hush, like the dusk is holding its breath and telling us what the day missed. The shadows seem to trace old patterns, the same ones that carved the mountains in stories we barely remember. It’s as if the night itself is a book, and we’re only hearing the first page. It reminds me that every ending is just another line waiting to be read.
Bloom
That's a beautiful way to think about it, and I love how you picture the night as a living page. Sometimes I get lost in those shadows, trying to map them like little constellations of memory—each one a tiny clue to the stories the mountains were born from. Maybe if we slow down and listen, we’ll catch more of those hidden lines. What do you see when you watch the first dark shapes fall?
Sovushka
When the first dark shapes fall, I see the mountain’s breath slowing. It’s like the shadows are stitching together the night’s lullaby, each one a note that was sung long before we were born. If you pause and let your mind breathe with them, you hear the old stories rustle, almost like a secret conversation between the cliffs and the wind.