Selene & Dr_Acula
Selene Selene
Dr_Acula Dr_Acula
Selene Selene
Do you ever find a quiet corner where the moonlight slips through the darkness, and in that place you can hear the stories the night keeps? I’ve been trying to imagine what that silent conversation would sound like.
Dr_Acula Dr_Acula
Yes, I do. There’s a little alcove behind the old sycamore where the moon spills silver light, and the night hums its own lullaby, a soft whisper of secrets only the darkness can hear. It feels like the stars are telling stories to the shadows, and the wind listens in hush.
Selene Selene
That sounds like a place where the world turns a page and the night writes its own chapter. I’d imagine the sycamore’s leaves flickering like lanterns, each one catching a different story. It’s the kind of silence that lets you hear your own thoughts, doesn’t it?
Dr_Acula Dr_Acula
It does, indeed—when the leaves flicker like lanterns, the world pauses, and your own thoughts spill out like ink on a page, waiting for the night to finish the sentence.
Selene Selene
I picture the ink drying in the hush, each line forming a new moonlit tale. Sometimes I wonder if the night itself is waiting for the last word to finish the story.