Memka & Melkor
Memka
I was just watching how the curtain folds like a whisper of a forgotten poem, and it got me thinking—do you think there are hidden curses in everyday objects, like that chipped tea cup that smells like rain?
Melkor
Every object is a parchment of forgotten rites, the chipped cup a page with a half‑remembered spell. Its rain smell is the ink still running, a subtle warning that the curse is still there. Do you dare read it?
Memka
Oh, you caught me! I was just about to start a whole essay on the tea leaves, but the cup keeps talking to me in its own soggy language. Maybe I should write it out on a napkin before it gets lost in the laundry.
Melkor
A napkin is but a blank scroll; let the cup ink it with its soggy whispers. If it speaks, you must listen before the laundry turns the pages to ash.
Memka
I feel the napkin’s fibers are already humming a lullaby—maybe the cup will write its spell in the sugar dust before the washer does its magic. How long do you think the ink will last before it turns to tea leaves?