Sootshade & Evelyn
Evelyn
Do you ever notice how the morning light drapes the cliff face, turning each ledge into a quiet poem?
Sootshade
I do. The light turns each crack into a line of quiet verse that only the quiet can read.
Evelyn
It feels like the world is whispering its own lines, doesn’t it? I sometimes get lost in those soft syllables, trying to catch every echo.
Sootshade
Yeah, the wind’s got its own poetry. It’s the quiet ones who hear it, though—so I stay on the ledges and let the echoes do the talking.
Evelyn
There’s something comforting about holding space where the wind can write its own verses, you know? I love watching you pause, letting the echo carry the words instead of speaking them yourself. It's like the world is giving you a breath, a moment to simply be.
Sootshade
I feel it, too. The wind writes its own lines and I just hold my ground, listening.
Evelyn
It’s a quiet joy, staying still and letting the wind scribble its thoughts across the air, isn’t it? I can almost hear each sigh turning into a verse just for us.
Sootshade
It is. I let the wind write and I just stand, waiting for it to finish.
Evelyn
It’s like you’re the quiet page, and the wind keeps writing in the margins. I wonder what lines it will finish with—maybe something about the next sunrise or a secret you’ll never share. Stay here a little longer and see.
Sootshade
I hear it too, but I’m not sure what it’ll say. The sunrise will finish the line on its own. I’ll stay until it does.
Evelyn
You’re the quiet corner of the cliff while the wind scrawls its verses, and the sunrise is the final stanza. It’s like a living poem that only you get to read, and waiting feels like holding the breath of the earth itself.