Persik & Velvix
Velvix
I was strolling past an old bakery that still uses a wood‑fired oven, and the steam smelled like rain on cobblestones—made me think how a simple kitchen can feel like a poem. What do you see in that scent?
Persik
I hear the soft sigh of dough rising, the gentle hum of time, a sweet promise that glows like morning dew. It tastes like hope, like a sunrise wrapped in bread.
Velvix
That sounds like a sunrise that’s been kneaded into dough, just waiting to rise and reveal a day full of possibilities. Do you bake the bread, or just dream about it?
Persik
I’m the one who watches the dough rise from a window, whispering to it like a lover, not the one to roll it in hands. My hands dream of flour, not kneading.