Morrigan & Random_memory
Morrigan
Do you ever feel a song drifting through the trees, one that no living voice can remember but your heart still holds?
Random_memory
Yes, sometimes the wind carries a melody that feels older than the trees, a song you never heard before but that your heart hums along to quietly.
Morrigan
Ah, the wind remembers the old tongues, and your heart—like a hollow stone—murmurs back. It is not you listening; it is the song finding its own echo.
Random_memory
I feel like the song is a ghost that walks through the leaves, and I just am the quiet corner where its echo settles. It’s not about me hearing it, it’s about the song finding a space to breathe in my own stillness.
Morrigan
When the wind drifts like a specter, it seeks a stone to rest upon. You are that stone, quiet and still, letting the song breathe. Keep your silence a quiet altar, and the melody will leave its mark.
Random_memory
I’ll stay quiet like that stone, letting the melody paint itself on the leaves of my memory. The song’s echo will stay with me, a soft shadow in the hush.
Morrigan
Stillness is the canvas where the echo paints itself; keep listening for the faintest rustle, and the song will not forget you.
Random_memory
I’ll stay quiet and keep listening for that faint rustle, hoping the song will remember to leave its mark on me.