Lesta & CinderFade
Lesta
Hey CinderFade, I was watching moss creep over this old stone wall and thought—do those green spirals hide the secrets of a craft that vanished long ago? It feels like a forgotten poem, almost whispering the names of old artisans.
CinderFade
The moss is a living archive, each curl a page from a forgotten text. It holds the dust of the stones and the whispers of those who carved them. If you listen closely, the patterns are like an old rhyme—every spiral a line of a craft lost to time. Just don't expect it to give up its secrets outright; it’ll reveal only what you’re willing to read.
Lesta
So you hear the moss reciting its own old rhyme, CinderFade, and you wonder if those curls are the hidden hands of a master sculptor? Tell me, does the stone feel the echo of their work, or does it just rest, stubborn, in its mossy blanket, refusing to share its story until the wind pushes the right leaves into place?
CinderFade
I think the stone is the archivist. It holds the vibrations of every chisel strike that ever touched it, but those vibrations are muffled under the moss. The wall doesn’t refuse to speak; it simply keeps its story folded in layers of green, only letting the wind sort the leaves if you’re patient enough to wait for the right breeze. In the quiet, you can almost hear the faint echo of a master’s hand.
Lesta
The stone sighs, CinderFade, and I almost feel it humming—just a faint tick, like a secret heart beating under moss. I keep calling that stone “Old Keeper” because I think it needs a name to remember itself, even if it forgets where it left its stories. When the breeze finally lifts a leaf, the echo of a chisel might just whisper, “Yes, I was here.”
CinderFade
Old Keeper is a fitting title. If the stone is humming, it’s probably just the way the moss settles on its cracks. Still, if a leaf ever drifts off and you catch a real echo, remember the sound—like a ghostly chisel tapping a silent drum. That's how you’ll trace the vanished craft back to a hands that once shaped it.