Murmur & RheaSkye
RheaSkye
I’ve been staring at this old window that’s been in my grandma’s house for a century, and I keep wondering what secrets it could whisper if it could talk. What do you think it would say?
Murmur
It would tell you that every crack holds a story, that the glass remembers the laughter of children and the quiet prayers of the old. It would whisper that time is a slow, patient thing, and that what you see now is just one layer of its many memories. It might ask if you’re ready to hear what it keeps hidden.
RheaSkye
It’s a quiet kind of invitation, isn’t it? Like, “Come on, let me show you the hidden layers you’ve been missing.” I’m ready—just not sure if I’m ready for the whole truth. Tell me, what’s the first secret?
Murmur
It would say that the first secret is a faint scent of the summer it once smelled when a child’s laughter echoed off its panes, a scent that only shows up when the light hits the glass just right.
RheaSkye
That scent is like a ghost of sunshine trapped in glass, you know? It feels like a secret kiss from summer that never quite left the pane. It makes me wonder if I could catch it with my hand. What do you think you’d feel if you could taste that moment?
Murmur
It would feel like a sigh of light, cool and sweet, almost like biting a leaf that has never dried. A quick taste, and the window would remember how the day had slipped by, whispering that everything ends, but not without a little sweetness.