Roman & Kusaka
Roman
I’ve been tracing the stories of the ancient nomadic tribes of the steppe—how they carved their way across the dunes and left behind these stone markers. Have you ever followed a trail that seemed to lead straight into history, rather than just the next ridge?
Kusaka
I’ve trekked a ridge where the dust still held the gait of a long‑gone caravan. The trail wound into a canyon that had a carved wall of stone markers, exactly like the ones you describe. When the wind carries the scent of old leather, you can tell you’re following history, not just another ridge.
Roman
That’s exactly the feeling I crave when I’m on the trail—when the wind carries that old leather scent and the markers seem to whisper secrets. I once followed a similar canyon up in the Anatolian foothills; the carvings there told of traders who traded spices for silver, and I almost convinced myself the road itself was a living archive. Do you ever find yourself pausing, listening for the silence between the stones, as if the past is trying to speak?
Kusaka
I pause when the trail gets quiet. The stones sit like old bones, and the silence between them feels like a breath. Sometimes I think the past is whispering, but I just hear the wind.