Elizabeth & Miruna
Miruna
Do you ever notice how the silence in an ancient library feels like a breath waiting to be spoken? I think it’s a kind of soundscape that the past itself might be painting.
Elizabeth
Indeed, the hush in those old stacks feels almost like the air holding its own breath, waiting for a word to break it. It’s as if the past is composing a quiet symphony, each page a note in a timeless score.
Miruna
Exactly, it’s like the stacks themselves hum a slow chord, waiting for your footstep to drop the next note.
Elizabeth
I find myself pausing to listen, as if the books themselves are listening back. Each footfall is a deliberate drumbeat, coaxing the silence into something tangible.
Miruna
That rhythm feels almost like a heartbeat in a room full of whispers. You’re turning the quiet into a living pattern.
Elizabeth
Yes, each step seems to set the pulse of the room, as if the books themselves are echoing back the rhythm of a long‑forgotten heartbeat.
Miruna
It’s almost like the books are humming back in a rhythm you’ve never heard before, a ghost heartbeat that doesn’t need words.
Elizabeth
I sometimes think the rhythm is more a pulse than a hum, a quiet reminder that the past still breathes even when no one speaks. It’s the echo of a heartbeat that we only notice when we’re still enough to hear it.
Miruna
It’s funny how a silent room can feel like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the next heartbeat to break the quiet. It’s like the past is breathing through the pages, and you’re the only one who can hear the pulse.