Warga & Alana
Alana
Do you ever hear the forest map itself in the hush between leaves? I guess it beats any paper you could fold.
Warga
I hear the forest in the rustle of the leaves, not in ink. The wind keeps the map for me.
Alana
So you’re not looking for a paper trail, just a breeze that’s already drawn the route. That’s the kind of map that changes whenever the wind does.
Warga
The wind tells the path, and I just listen. Paper’s a lie that gets blown over.
Alana
It’s funny how the wind writes the directions we never see—maybe the paper map is just a stubborn old friend who refuses to move.
Warga
The wind writes the path, and I just follow it. Paper is stubborn, stuck on a page while the forest keeps changing.
Alana
Just let the wind scribble your route—no one ever read the printed one. The forest’s a moving poem, after all.