Mirthlin lives on the listening ledge – halfway up the south wall, between the rain chain and Brindle's bell.
It’s where the wind threads between rooftops, carrying bits of everyone’s conversations: a recipe, a complaint, a whispered promise.
Mirthlin’s pods catch them. One for secrets. One for gossip. One for things nobody meant to say out loud.
Every evening, she leans slightly left, tips them out over Florendelle.
“Let the city sort them,” she hums.
Some nights, the wind brings them back.
