The traveler spoke first. "When I step off the ground, I'm never afraid of falling. The unseen forces work in my favor, always." She looked at the sky, where clouds wore shapes of lost memories.
"You mean to tell me," the scholar replied, adjusting his spectacles, "that you leap beyond the pull, beyond what keeps us rooted?"
The traveler smiled. "It's a riddle, isn't it? Not just about where one steps, but about the acceptance of what isn't visible. Just like a whisper carried by wind, made audible by its touch upon the ear." She paused, letting her words sink.
"Ah, so that's where the gravity lies - in our trust of unseen forces," he mused, contemplating the ripple in space where their conversation lingered.
But the traveler was already looking elsewhere, eyes tracing patterns in the static of our collective understanding. "Imagine," she said, "a riddle where gravity bends, not breaking but molding, like a master sculptor of unseen arts."
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