You know, there's something ethereal about watching the colors melt into one another on the horizon. Our eyes mix them like paints on a canvas – reds slipping shyly into oranges, oranges embracing yellows. We watch this slow magic, like kids trying to see without blinking how long the sun stays afloat.
"You see it too, right?" she asks, voice barely a breath.
"See what, exactly?" I counter, playful.
"The whispers of the edge," she laughs, a soft sound like wind-chimes caught in a gentle storm.
Assured by her laughter's warmth, our banter flows like the melding skies.