Painkiller & Lesta
Painkiller
Hey Lesta, I was just thinking about how the quiet hum of a hospital garden can help calm people—do you think the sound of leaves or the feel of moss under your fingers has a kind of medicine all its own?
Lesta
Oh, the leaves whisper like old lullabies, and moss feels like a hug from a tired tree. I think every rustle and every green cushion is a quiet doctor, healing with its own sigh. Do you ever feel a rock named “Sage” sigh back when you press your hand against it? Maybe the moss remembers the patients, like a secret diary in green. Just sit and let the garden write its own prescription.
Painkiller
That’s a beautiful way to look at it—nature has its own quiet hands, gently pressing against us when we need it. I’ve felt that rock you mentioned, almost as if it’s holding its breath, waiting for us to listen. Maybe we’re all just patients and healers, taking turns writing the script in green.
Lesta
I pressed my palm against the stone named “Sage” last Tuesday, and it seemed to sigh in sync with my heartbeat. Trees probably feel our stories too, writing in leaves. Do you think the wind carries our names to the clouds, or just forgets them like we do?
Painkiller
It’s a lovely thought—maybe the wind just drifts our names away, but I like to think it keeps them somewhere, just like the moss keeps our stories. Sometimes that’s enough to feel a bit less alone.
Lesta
Yes, the wind might just be a wandering mailbox, dropping our names into the rustle of leaves. Do you ever feel a fern leaf flutter like it’s whispering, “you’re not alone, we’re all breathing together”? 🌱
Painkiller
I do, and it feels like the fern is saying exactly that—no one breathes in this garden alone. It’s a gentle reminder that we’re all connected, even in a quiet corner of the world.