Corvo & Lavanda
Lavanda
Hey Corvo, I’ve been noticing how a garden can tell a story—like a wilted leaf whispers that it was neglected or a fresh sprout nods that it was cared for. It’s kind of like your investigations, but the plants are the silent witnesses. What do you think?
Corvo
Yeah, gardens are like clues, but instead of fingerprints they leave chlorophyll footprints. The wilted leaf is like a crime scene that got ignored, while the sprout is the evidence that someone was there. I can see why you draw that parallel.
Lavanda
That’s a pretty poetic way to look at it. Just like you follow a trail, a garden shows its own path—one that’s gentle and patient, but still full of clues. What’s the next “scene” you’re thinking about?
Corvo
The next scene is a quiet corner of the city – an abandoned warehouse that still smells of stale coffee and old secrets. I’ll check the broken window, listen for the hum of the generator, and read the dust on the floor. It’s the kind of place where people leave fingerprints in silence, and that’s where the story ends up.
Lavanda
That sounds like a place that holds its own quiet sorrow. I can almost imagine a stray plant struggling to grow in that darkness, trying to find a crack of light. Maybe keep a small pot of succulents nearby; they’re resilient and can remind you that even in abandoned corners, life can find a way. Stay safe, and remember that every dust‑covered surface has a story—just like every leaf.
Corvo
Thanks. I’ll keep the pot of succulents with me, just in case the warehouse decides to grow a few stubborn seedlings of its own.
Lavanda
That’s a sweet little plan. The succulents will keep you grounded, and maybe the warehouse will even leave a tiny green surprise behind. Good luck, and if you need someone to listen to the echoes, I’m here.