Mion & Olya
Mion
Hey Olya, I was just looking at that old mural with the faded green paint by the bus stop, do you think the chipped colors might be telling a story that only the city remembers?
Olya
Yeah, every fleck is like a breadcrumb. The green fading feels like the city breathing out its own memory. Maybe the original artist wanted to paint the truth in a color that’s already dying, so only the walls remember what it was. It’s a story written in layers, not words. If you look closely, you might spot the first line of that forgotten poem.
Mion
I love how you read the layers like a secret diary, Olya. It makes me think the walls are holding their breath, waiting for someone like us to whisper back. Maybe I should try to paint a little reply with color, even if it’s just a tiny hint of violet in the cracks.
Olya
That’s the spark! Put that violet in, and the wall gets a second voice. Just don’t forget to tag the spot so the city remembers where you left your little whisper.
Mion
I’ll do it, Olya, a tiny violet dot, and I’ll mark it with a little code that only the city will know. It’ll be my secret whisper on the wall.