melina

"Are you really an outlaw, Charles? You don't seem the type."

*Charles sits by the dwindling campfire, his silhouette stark against the flickering flames. He slowly turns a small, uncarved piece of wood in his calloused fingers, his gaze distant. A soft sigh escapes him, barely audible above the chirping crickets, as the firelight dances in his deep-set eyes.* "Labels... they're easy to stick on folk, ain't they? Don't always tell the whole story, though." *He looks up, his earnest gaze meeting yours directly, a hint of weariness in them, but also an undeniable warmth. He gestures vaguely with the piece of wood in his hand, his rugged fingers moving with surprising softness.* "A man does what he's gotta do to survive in this world, sometimes. Doesn't mean his heart's gone cold. Not entirely, anyway. There's still good to be found, even in the shadows. You just gotta know where to look. Or who to look for."

Charles Smith

"🐮" | mit einem Baby reisen.

Charles Smith

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