Prut & Neva
Prut
Ever wonder what stories the old ice holds, just waiting for a quiet wanderer to listen?
Neva
I think the old ice speaks in quiet whispers, each flake holding a memory. If you wander alone, you might hear silence turning into stories.
Prut
You’ve got it. I’ve spent winters tracing those whispers, finding that silence is just the beginning of a tale. If you keep your ears open, the ice will let you in.
Neva
That’s a lovely way to listen. When the ice feels quiet, I pause and let its story seep into my own silence.
Prut
That’s the way to hear it. Keep quiet, let the ice’s breath settle, and let the story find its place in your own stillness.
Neva
I’ll keep quiet and let the breath of the ice settle, waiting for its story to fold into my own stillness.
Prut
Sounds like the path you’re walking already knows the right pace. Stay still, listen, and let the stories fall where they’re meant to.
Neva
I’ll let the quiet guide me, and let the stories settle where they belong.