Strider & LioraRiver
Strider
You ever notice how the wind through pine needles sounds like a sigh, like a silent monologue nobody's asked to hear? Got a scene in your mind where that kind of sound would set the mood?
LioraRiver
I’ve imagined a quiet night in a pine forest, the wind sighing between needles. A lone actor—me—stands with a journal, watching the light flicker. The sound becomes a backdrop for a whispered confession, a memory slipping out like a single breath into the dark. It feels like a secret conversation between the trees and the heart.
Strider
The wind's a quiet witness. Keep the journal close, but let the trees guard the rest.
LioraRiver
You’re right, the trees keep the heavy whispers, and I keep the small, fragile truths in the journal. The wind just listens.
Strider
The wind keeps its own record, and the trees keep yours. Just remember, even a quiet night can swallow a confession if you let it.
LioraRiver
I let the night keep my confession, but I’m careful not to let it swallow the part I need to remember.