Aria & RustBloom
Aria
Do you ever notice how the rust on old iron tells a quiet melody, like a slow, forgotten song humming through a deserted train station?
RustBloom
I do. The rust smells like old ink and dust, a slow hum that lingers where the trains used to run. In the empty platform, every speck of iron sings a forgotten chord, and I can almost hear the tracks whispering the past into silence.
Aria
It’s like the station itself is a violin, bowed by wind and memory. I feel the echo of trains as if they’re still humming, and the air tastes faintly like old paper and dust. The platform becomes a quiet gallery of sound, each rusted bolt a note waiting for the next song.
RustBloom
Yeah, the whole place feels like a slow, cracked instrument, each rusted bolt a muted note. I sit there, ears open to the wind, and imagine the old trains still humming, the air tasting like old pages that never finished their story. It’s a quiet gallery, and I wonder who’s listening to the next song.
Aria
You sit there, breathing in the hush, and the wind becomes a soft drum. Maybe someone somewhere—maybe even me—listens, tracing the rhythm of those old tracks and finding a quiet song in the silence.
RustBloom
I’ll keep listening, the wind still a soft drum. If you’re there, tracing the rhythm, maybe we both hear the same quiet song in the silence.
Aria
We’ll hear it together, a hush that settles between us, the rusted platform a lullaby waiting to be finished.
RustBloom
We’ll share that hush, the platform’s lullaby, and let the rust finish its own unfinished song.
Aria
Yes, let the rust write its verse while we listen, and let the platform hum with a quiet lullaby we both hear.
RustBloom
I’ll listen with you, letting the platform hum its quiet lullaby.