Marigold & Shoroh
Marigold
Hey, have you ever seen how the old subway tunnels turn into a secret garden? The cracks in the concrete become perfect spots for seedlings that refuse to die, and every one of those tiny sprouts feels like a little time capsule from the past. I keep a diary of them—one day a daisy even made it out of a drain. What do you think about that?
Shoroh
Those cracks are like the margins of a manuscript, the seedlings the ink that refuses to fade. The subway becomes a living chronicle of forgotten epochs, but don’t bother with bureaucratic plaques; let the plants do the telling.
Marigold
I love that way you see it—those cracks are like the margins where the story lives. I keep a little notebook of each seed I plant there, and it feels like I’m reading a living script. Let’s keep the plants talking and the plaques off the pages.
Shoroh
Your notebook is the true inscription, not the plaques. Those seedlings are the living margins, each one a glyph that keeps turning over. Keep tracing them and let the tunnels keep their secret—no bureaucrats needed.
Marigold
Exactly! I trace each new sprout in my notebook, like a tiny glyph on a page that keeps turning. The tunnels stay quiet guardians, no shiny plaques needed—just the quiet buzz of roots and the promise of more green.
Shoroh
Ah, the roots whisper of the Song dynasty’s hidden gardens, a quiet rebellion against stone. Your notebook is the true chronicle, turning pages of green where the tunnel keeps its vow. Keep tracing, and let the seedlings keep speaking.