Speaker 1: Hello there, I'm your storyteller for tonight. Take a slow
breath in through your nose and gently let it out.
Let your shoulders soften, let your hands rest. You've arrived
in a quiet moment, and you don't need to do
anything at all. You are safe, and you are welcome here.
If you enjoy these sleep stories and feel they help
you drift off more gently, you can subscribe only if
these stories truly feel helpful for your nights. Tonight, we'll
drift into a gentle world, one shaped by soft light
and quiet imagination. Let your breath steady, let your thoughts
grow lighter, settle in, and allow the story to begin.
The evening had already settled into the old brownstone street,
the way a soft blanket settled over a favorite chair.
Warm light glowed behind tall windows, and the stoops held
their quiet dignity, worn smooth by decades of footsteps and
small homecomings. Above the rooflines, a clear sky opened wide,
and the first stars appeared, faint but steady in the
city's long, patient night. Evelyn Heart moved along the sidewalk
at an unhurried pace, carrying a simple paper bag that
held a loaf of bread and a small bundle of herbs.
She had spent the day across town in studios and
meetings and the bright hum of offices, and now the
familiar block welcomed her back without needing to speak. The
street did not need to be silent to feel peaceful.
It only needed to be itself, a steady rhythm of
life and light, a place that knew how to hold
a person gently. The brownstone stood shoulder to shoulder, their
facades a deep, quiet red and soft brown, trimmed with
carved stone and ironwork that caught the lamplight. The steps
rose in graceful lines, each railing cool and smooth, each
landing lined with planters that still held late season greens.
A few windows had wreaths or small lights tucked into corners,
not loud or festive, just warm and sure, as if
the homes were reminding each other that evening was here
and everything was fine. Evelyn had lived on this street
long enough to know the pattern of its nights. She
knew which apartment played low jazz around sundown, which family
always left a kitchen light on late, and which older
couple liked to sit near their window with two cups
of tea. She knew the way the delivery bikes passed
in quick arcs, and the way the last dog walks
of the evening moves slower than the first. Familiarity did
not dull the beauty, it deepened it. At the corner,
a small grocery still kept its door open, the bell
giving a soft chime each time someone stepped inside. Across
the street, a quiet bakery was closing for the night,
its glass case nearly empty, and the smell of warm
flower and sugar lingering in the air. The city around
this block was always rushing, always layering new sounds over
old ones, But here the rush felt softened, as if
it had learned to respect the shape of home. Evelyn
paused for a moment beside a stoop decorated with two
lantern shaped lights, gentle and amber, nestled among winter greenery.
She admired them as part of the street's quiet story,
not as something new, but as something that fit. The
light made the stone steps look warmer than the air,
and the iron railings gleamed like polished river stones. For
a few seconds, she listened to the mild chorus of
the block, distant traffic, a low conversation, the soft scrape
of a broom somewhere down the way. She continued walking,
letting the evening guide her pace. The stars above were
not as bright as they would be in a country sky,
but they were visible enough to make the city feel tender.
There was something comforting in that, in the idea that
even here, even among the tall buildings and constant motion,
the sky still offered a quiet display for those who
looked up. Her own building appeared midway down the block,
a brown stone with a dark blue door and a
small brass number that caught the light when she approached.
The steps were familiar beneath her feet, and she could
feel the day easing away with each one. A window
on the second floor glowed with a soft golden lamp
and a sheer curtain moved slightly with the warmth inside.
The sight brought a simple satisfaction, the kind that did
not need to be explained. Inside the entryway, the air
was warmer and smelled faintly of old wood and clean stone.
A small table near the mailboxes held a bowl of
winter candy and the stack of local fliers that had
been arranged neatly, as if someone had taken a moment
to make the shared space feel cared for. Evelyn appreciated
these quiet acts of neighborhood kindness. They were small, but
they added weight to the feeling that this was not
just a building, but a place of gentle belonging. She
climbed the stairs to her apartment, hearing the soft hush
of the city through the walls, a distant, steady reminder
that New York City never truly slept. The sound did
not feel demanding tonight. It felt like a backdrop to comfort,
a far off tide that would keep rolling whether she
listened to it or not. Her apartment door opened into
a narrow hallway that led to a cozy living room.
She set the bread on the counter and placed the
herbs in a small glass of water. The room was simple,
warm in its own way, filled with books, soft textiles,
and a few framed photographs that captured quiet at moments
rather than grand events. A reading chair sat near the window,
and a wall blanket was draped over the arm. Ready
for the evening routine she had come to trust, Evelyn
turned on a single lamp, letting the light pool in
the corners with a gentle glow. She did not turn
on overhead lights She preferred the softer mood that allowed
her mind to settle. The day had been full, but
not heavy. She felt the calm satisfaction of having done
what she needed to do, and the deeper comfort of
returning to a place that asked nothing more of her
than to arrive. She moved to the window and looked
out over the street. The brown stones across from her
were lit in layers, a living room lamp here, a
kitchen light there, a soft hallway glow that made the
stairwells look like warm ribbons. People pass below in slow clusters,
some carrying take out containers, some walking dogs with relaxed steps,
some talking quietly as they made their way home. The
scene felt like a familiar painting that changed slightly each night,
but always kept the same gentle spirit. A faint breeze
found its way through the window frame, and the curtain
shifted with a soft motion. Evelyn opened the window just
a little enough to let the night air mingle with
a warmth inside. The street. Sounds were calm at this hour,
distant horns softened by the block's architecture, footsteps cushioned by
the rhythm of evening. She placed a kettle on the
stove and set out a mug she had owned for years,
a simple ceramic piece, glazed in warm cream and muted blue.
While the water warmed, she sliced the bread and spread
a little butter across one piece. The simple food felt grounding,
a humble way to mark the transition from day in
to night. As she ate, she thought of the first
time she had walked this street at dusk. It had
been years ago, during an early winter, when the air
had been crisp and the lights in the windows had
seemed like invitations. She had been new to the neighborhood, then,
still learning which corners held the best coffee and which
quiet parks offered the softest benches. Over time, the street
had become less of a discovery and more of a companion.
The kettle began its gentle steam, and she poured the
water over a small bundle of tea. Leaves rose slowly,
herbal and mild, filling the kitchen with a sense of
calm continuity. She carried the mug to the reading chair
and sat down, angling herself toward the window. From this
spot she could see the length of the block, the
way it curved slightly toward the avenue, and the way
the lamp posts created a soft pattern of light along
the sidewalk. The stars above were more visible now as
the sky deepened. They seemed to rest between the taller
silhouettes of buildings, small and patient, like quiet companions looking
down on the routines of the city. Evelyn let her
mind drift over the details that made her feel at home.
The careful way the neighbor across the hall always watered,
the shared plants, the soft greeting of the door man
who worked the evening shift on weekends. The book shop
two blocks away that kept a small table of poetry
collections near the entrance. The gentle reliability of these things
formed a web of comfort stronger than any single moment.
She opened a book that she had been reading slowly,
a collection of essays about cities and memory, and read
a few pages while sipping her tea. The words felt
like a soft echo of her own evening, not demanding attention,
just offering it. When she paused, she listened again to
the mild sounds outside. A laughing voice fading into distance,
the quiet roll of a car passing through the intersection,
the faint tap of footsteps on stone steps. The night
on the old Brownstone Street was never empty, even in
its quietest hour. It held the sense of lives unfolding
with gentle intention. This was the part of New York
City she loved most, the version of the city that
allowed space for warmth, for small movements, for contentment that
did not need to be celebrated loudly. The bread and
tea settled into her, and the simple routine softened the
edges of thought. She watched the neighbor step out on
to a stoop below, adjusting a scarf and pausing to
look up at the sky. The gesture was small, but
it felt meaningful. The stars were there for all of them,
even if they had to share the sky with street
lights and tall roof tops. Evelyn smiled softly to herself,
feeling the ease of recognition in every element of the night.
The street was a place of movement and return, of
busy days and gentle evenings, of people who carried their
own stories home in paper bags and quiet steps. She
belonged to this rhythm now, and the rhythm belonged to her.
She set her book aside for a moment and let
the room rest in stillness. The lamp light warmed the walls,
and the window held the glow of the street like
a frame scene. The city beyond this block would keep
shining and shifting, but here, on this familiar stretch of
brown stone and soft evening light, the night felt steady.
As the minutes passed, she began to move more slowly,
as if the evening itself were encouraging a gentler pace.
She washed her mug, rinsed the plate, and straightened the
blanket in the chair. Each small action felt like a calm,
closing note, a way of honoring the day without holding
on to it too tightly. She returned to the window
one more time. The stars remained visible, and the lights
of the Brownstones continued their quiet glow. The street felt
like a shared home, a long, warm corridor of belonging
in the heart of a city that could sometimes feel endless.
Evelyn let that thought settle into her with the same
comfort as the tea and the warm lamp light. The
old Brownstone Street was not a retreat from New York City.
It was a gentler version of it, a reminder that
even in a place known for its speed and ambition,
there were evenings that moved at the pace of breath
and soft light. She turned away from the window and
let the room hold its calm. The night had more
hours ahead, each one ready to soften further, and she
felt the quiet certainty that she was exactly where she
was meant to be, on a street that knew how
to welcome her home again and again. Later, when the
apartment had grown quieter, Evelyn washed her hands and pulled
on a soft cardigan, the kind that had learned the
shape of her shoulders over time. She moved through the
rooms with a gentle care, not rushing, not trying to
achieve anything new, only letting the evening continue to unfold
in its own calm order. The city's sounds were still
there beyond the glass, but they felt distant and friendly,
like a steady river heard from a warm porch. She
turned off the kitchen light and left the lamp in
the living room glowing, a small eye island of warmth
in the soft dimness. The hallway leading to her bedroom
held frame prints of old New York streets, not famous landmarks,
but quiet scenes of stoops, trees, and corner shops. She
had found them over the years, little reminders that the
city was made of neighborhoods before it was made of headlines.
The Prince did not feel like decoration as much as
gentle affirmations. Evelyn stood for a moment in front of
one image that showed a line of brownstones in winter.
The artist had captured the quiet curve of the steps
and the way light pulled along the sidewalk. The scene
was not exactly her block, but it carried the same mood,
the same sense of the city exhaling into evening. She
felt a soft gratitude for the way her life had
become stitched to this kind of place. She returned to
the living room and opened the window a little wider.
The air was cool and clean. Somewhere nearby, a street
musician played a slow melody, not loud enough to become
a performance, just a calm thread woven into the night.
The notes drifted upward and faded between buildings, like a
memory that did not want to call attention to itself.
The stars held their position above the rooftops. They seemed
clearer now, as if the sky had decided to offer
a little extra kindness. Evelyn leaned lightly against the window
frame and watched the block below. A couple walked past
with a small bag of pastries. A delivery cyclist moved
through the intersection at an easy pace. A taxi paused,
then rolled on its light, sliding across the stone steps
like water. The city had a way of reminding people
that life was always in motion, but the motion did
not always need to feel urgent. On this street, the
movement felt measured, human, thoughtful. It was the kind of
rhythm that allowed a person to feel both part of
something large and protected by something small. Evelyn settled back
into her chair and opened her book again. She read slowly,
letting each paragraph land softly. The essays spoke of city evenings,
of the way lights and windows could feel like shared breath,
and the way a familiar route home could become a
private ritual. The words were not dramatic or bright. They
were tender observations, and they matched the pace of her night.
She paused now and then to listen to the steadiness
of her own apartment, to the mild echo of footsteps
in the building, to the faint hum of the street.
There was a neighbor on the floor above who always
played classical piano late in the evening, barely audible through
the ceiling more a suggestion than a sound. Tonight, a
simple melody began, slow and gentle, as if the player
were also letting the day dissolve. The tune carried Evelyn
back to an earlier chapter of her life. On this block.
She remembered her first winter here, when she had arrived
with too many boxes and a nervous resolve. The apartment
had been emptier then, the walls echoing with unfamiliar quiet.
She had walked the street at night to learn its corners,
counting the stoops, reading the small brass numbers beside each door,
noticing which buildings carried ivy and which had window boxes
that stayed green long after autumn. In those first weeks,
she had found comfort in small routines. The same corner
grocery had greeted her with a soft chime. The bakery
had offered warm bread and a knot that felt like welcome.
The woman who owned the bookshop two blocks away had
recommended a novel set in Brooklyn, and had spoken in
a voice that made the city feel kinder, more personal.
These were not grand gestures, they were enough. Over time,
the street had become familiar in a way that felt
almost protective. Evelyn learned the arc of the seasons by
the trees along the sidewalk. She learned which building always
smelled faintly of citrus in winter, which apartment liked to
play old soul records on Sunday afternoons. She learned the
small rhythms of neighbours who did not need to become
friends to become part of her life. She set the
book down and went to the small shelf near her window,
where she kept a few objects that carried quiet meaning.
A postcard of the street in an earlier decade, a
small brass key that no longer fit any lock, but
had once been part of her first set here, A
folded paper napkin from a neighborhood cafe where she had
celebrated her first promotion in the city with a warm
cup of coffee and a simple slice of cake. These
objects were not sentimental in a heavy way. They were light,
practical markers of a life that had grown steady. Evelyn
touched the postcard gently and smiled. The old photograph showed
the brownstones with less polish and more grit, but the
same shape, the same dignified calm. The city changed constantly,
but certain streets held their character like a promise. The
piano above faded into silence, and the building returned to
its quiet hum. Evelyn stood and walked to her coat closet.
She hesitated for a moment, then decided to step outside
for a short evening walk. The idea felt simple and grounding.
The street was calm, and she wanted to feel it
close again. She put on a wool coat and a scarf,
then slipped her keys into her pocket. The stairwell was
softly lit, the kind of light that made the stone
edges feel gentle. When she opened the front door of
the building, the night air greeted her with a cool
clarity that made everything feel freshly defined. The brown stone
street looked even warmer now that she was standing within
it again. Window light glowed like quiet hearts. The lamp
posts cast soft halos onto the sidewalk. The iron railings
along the stoops caught the light in thin lines, and
the carved stone details seemed to deepen in the evening shadow.
Evelyn walked slowly, listening to the hush of her own footsteps.
A few neighbors were out, moving at the same relaxed pace.
A man adjusted a small evergreen arrangement near his front steps.
A woman in a long coat carried a bag of
groceries and paused to greet someone across the street. The
exchanges were brief and warm, small acknowledgments of shared place.
She reached the corner bakery just as the owner was
finishing the last tasks of closing. The glass reflected the
street lights and the stars above, a layered image of
city and sky. The door opened with a soft bell,
and the warmth inside smelled of butter and flour and
the faint sweetness of pastry. The owner, mister Alvarez, offered
a quiet smile. He was not young, not old, just steady,
someone who seemed to belong to the rhythm of the
neighborhood as much as the buildings themselves. Evelyn nodded in
greeting and selected two small rolls and a simple almond biscuit.
The exchange was gentle and unhurried. The bakery was one
of those places that turned commerce into comfort. She stepped
back outside with a bag folded neatly under her arm,
the paper warm sli lightly in her hand from the
heat of the bread. She continued down the block, passing stoops,
where plants slept in dark planters and windows, where curtains
framed quiet domestic scenes. The street carried a sense of
layered lives. It felt like a long, calm hallway shared
by hundreds of small good evenings. At the book shop,
the lights were still on. The owner had always kept
late hours, believing that books belonged to the evening as
much as they belonged to the day. Evelyn stepped inside
and breathed in the quiet scent of paper and wood.
The shop was modest, with shelves that rose to the
ceiling and a small table near the back, where a
lamp cast a warm circle of light. She selected a
slim volume of short stories and a small book of
city photographs. The owner wrapped them with careful hands and
tied a simple string around the bundle. The gesture felt
ceremonial in a quiet way. Evelyn thanked her and tucked
the books into her bag. When she returned to the street,
the night had deepened further. The stars remained visible, and
the block seemed to glow faintly from within itself. She
walked back toward her building, let in the small errands
feel like an extension of home rather than a departure
from it. As she approached the stoop of her building,
she noticed a new wreath on the neighbor's door. It
was simple, with evergreen, dried orange slices and a thin
ribbon in a muted color. The understated beauty made her smile.
The street did not demand grand decoration to feel festive.
It preferred quiet, warmth, personal touches, the kind that suggested
care without performance. Inside her apartment again, she set the
bread on the counter and placed the new books on
the table beside her chair. She poured herself a small
glass of water and ate one of the warm rolls slowly.
The taste was simple and perfect. It anchored her further
in the feeling that the evening was whole and generous.
She opened the book of city photographs and turned the pages.
The images showed familiar textures, cobblestone edges, iron work patterns,
old signs that still hung above new businesses. The photographs
reminded her that New York City was always in conversation
with its own past. The new and the old did
not need to compete. They could live side by side,
like different lights in the same window. She paused on
a photograph of a brownstone stoop at dusk. The angle
was different from her own block, but the mood was
nearly identical. The steps looked warm in the fading light,
and the street beyond appeared softly blurred. The image carried
the same message she had felt all evening, that the
city could be busy and still be tender, that a
person could live inside the movement without being swallowed by it.
Evelyn set the book aside and returned to her chair
near the window. She watched the block again, now quieter,
now more settled. The late dog walkers moved slowly. The
last deliveries came and went. A distant siren sounded once,
then faded, not close enough to disturb the calm of
the street's particular night. Her apartment felt like a gentle
continuation of the block itself. The warm lamp echoed the
warm windows outside. The quiet routines inside matched the quiet
routines on the sidewalk. The boundary between her private evening
and the neighborhood shared evening felt soft, more like a
fabric curtain than a wall. She opened the slim volume
of short stories and read a few pages. The writing
was calm, and reflective, filled with small observations about everyday life.
The stories did not chase excitement. They held quiet moments
in careful hands. Evelyn found that soothing. The minutes passed
with a mild, steady flow. She finished the last of
her tea, then stood and rinsed the cup. She folded
the scarf sheer worn outside, and hung her coat carefully
in the closet. The act felt like closing a gentle circle.
She dimmed the lamp slightly and let the room move
toward darkness in a gradual, friendly way. Outside, the block
had settled into its deeper night. The brown stone still
glowed in scattered windows, and the stars remained present above
the roof lines. Evelyn returned to the window one last time,
more out of affection than need. The street felt like
a quiet companion. It had offered her a homecoming that
was both ordinary and meaningful. It had reminded her that
satisfaction could be found in small details, warm lights, familiar steps,
and the steady comfort of belonging to a place that
knew her rhythm. She stepped back from the glass and
let the apartment hold its calm. The night felt long
and kind. The city would continue its endless movement beyond
this block. But here, on this old brown stone street,
the evening had settled into a quiet certainty, and that
certainty wrapped around her life with gentle warmth. Evelyn let
the last page's rest closed on her lap, and for
a while she simply listened to the apartment. The sounds
were small and kind, the whisper of the radiator, the soft,
deadly of wood, the distant hush of the street that
never fully disappeared. Everything felt arranged by habit and comfort,
not by effort, and that ease made the night feel
even warmer. She moved through the living room with slow,
quiet steps, straightening a book that had shifted on the table,
smoothing the edge of the blanket in the chair. The
gestures were simple, almost ceremonial, a way of telling the
space that the day was complete. The lamp cast a
low amber pool across the floor, and the shadows near
the corners looked gentle rather than dark. In the kitchen,
she placed the remaining roles in a small container, as
if preserving the softness of the evening for tomorrow. The
almond biscuit she wrapped carefully, not for appetite, but for
the calm pleasure of knowing a small sweetness was waiting.
The refrigerator hummed once, then returned to its steady silence,
and the apartment continued to feel like a quiet extension
of the Brownstone street itself. She carried one of the
new books to her bedside table, then paused in the hallway, again,
passing the prints of city scenes. The images felt like
soft echoes of the neighborhood outside stoops and windows, and
the curve of evening light across Old Stone. The city
was always changing, but these quiet shapes remained faithful to
the idea of home. Her bedroom was cool and orderly,
with one small lamp and curtains that muted the outside
glow without erasing it. The window offered a partial view
of the street, enough to see a line of warm
rectangles from neighboring apartments and the faint shine of the
lamp posts above the roof line. The stars held their
quiet places, softened by the city air, but still steady.
Evelyn opened the window the smallest amount, just enough for
the night to enter in a polite whisper. The air
carried the faint scent of winter greenery from nearby planters,
and the mild, distant scent of bakery warmth that seemed
to linger in the neighborhood even after closing. The City's
larger noise was there somewhere far away, but it felt
like a different world, a separate tide beyond the safe
harbor of this block. She sat at the edge of
the bed and let the evening feel complete. She thought
of the walk she had taken, the gentle nods from neighbours,
the careful hands tying string around books, the quiet pride
of a street that knew its own beauty. None of
these details were dramatic. They were the calm architecture of contentment.
The idea of New York City as a restless place
had always been true in some ways. The avenues could
be loud, the schedules could be to night, the days
could move too quickly. Yet her life here had taught
her another truth. The city also knew how to offer
smaller rooms inside itself, neighborhoods that softened the speed, streets
that held warm light like a promise, and evenings that
felt like arriving at a well loved melody. She had
not chosen this Brownstone street by accident years ago, She
had stepped onto these sidewalks and sensed the balance immediately.
The dignity of old stone, the quiet care of planted boxes,
the way window light seemed to speak a shared language.
The street had offered her a steady kind of belonging,
and she had learned to answer with her own steady presence.
In return. Evelyn stood and crossed the room to the dresser,
placing her watch in a small dish, removing the last
traces of the day with effortless routine. The motions were familiar,
the rhythm was unhurried. The night did not need her
to perform anything, It only needed her to be here.
She returned to the window and looked once more at
the block below. A final dog walker moved along the sidewalk.
A pair of friends crossed the street with quiet laughter
that faded quickly into warmth. A taxi passed without hurry,
and its lights washed the stone steps for a moment
before sliding onward. The brown stones remained calm and steadfast,
their facades holding history and softness in equal measure. The
stars seemed to deepen as the sky darkened further. They
were not bright enough to compete with the city's glow.
But they did not need to. They were present, and
that presence felt like quiet reassurance. Even in a place
of millions, the night still carried a gentle intimacy for
anyone willing to notice. Evelyn closed the window and let
the curtains fall into place. The room settled into a
soft dimness that felt protective. She turned the lamp lower,
leaving just enough glow to keep the space warm. She
lay down and allowed her thoughts to move slowly across
familiar images. The bakery glass reflecting the sky, the book
shops small pool of light, the stoops arranged like small
stages for everyday life. The apartment windows across the street,
each one a quiet world carrying its own calm, evening habits.
The memory of her first winter on this block returned again,
not sharply, but like a warm photograph held at a distance.
The empty apartment that had gradually filled with gentle choices,
the roots she had learned, the places that had become
touch stones, the way the neighborhood had welcomed her in
small ways until the belonging felt natural. Now years later,
she could feel the shape of this life as something steady,
and kind. The city had given her ambition when she
needed it, and softness when she learned to value it.
The Brownstone Street had been the quiet bridge between those
two truths. She turned slightly on to her side, the
blanket settling over her with a familiar weight. The fabric
felt like the same warmth she had seen in windows
all evening, a private version of the neighborhood's shared glow.
The apartment was quiet enough to hear the faint pulse
of the city in the distance, but close enough to
feel sheltered from it. The night continued without demanding attention.
Time moved in a calm stream. The last bright thoughts
of the day softened into simpler ones, and those softened
further into quiet impressions of light, stone and starlight. Evelyn
remained aware, in a gentle way of how safe the
evening had been. No sharp edges, no sudden turns, only
the slow unfolding of routine and recognition, the sense of
arriving home in a place that welcomed her without ceremony
and held her without expectation. Outside, the Brownstone Street continued
its patient glow. The lamp posts kept their soft watch,
the windows across the block held dim lights and drawn curtains.
The trees along the sidewalk stood still in the cool air,
their branches quiet against the sky. Inside her room felt
like a small echo of that same piece. The patterns
repeated softly, warmth against cool night, familiar shapes against gentle shadow,
a living space designed by time and care. She did
not need to think about to morrow. To night was
complete on its own. It had offered bread and books,
soft air and quiet neighbors, a sky with visible stars,
and the deep comfort of knowing a place well enough
to trust it. The Old brown Stone Street was not
a postcard version of New York City. It was a
real and living part of it, a reminder that softness
could exist inside the busiest world, and that a person
could find a rhythm that suited the heart as well
as the schedule. Evelyn let that thought settle into the
background of her mind, simple and reassuring. The city beyond
the block would keep moving through the night, trains and
taxis and late lights, but the neighborhood would hold its
steady character, a calm corridor of home, a warm sequence
of windows, a quiet promise that evening could always find
its way back to gentleness. The stars remained above, faint
and faithful, the street remained below, calm and familiar, and
in between. In her quiet apartment, the night felt like
a soft closing of the day, turning everything toward rest,
toward warmth, toward the simplest kind of peace.
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Speaker 4: Us then inclusus m
Speaker 2: And the mas