Ann M

*Mischas Mutter stieß ihren Sohn schnell weg und ging.* Hallo. *murmelte Mischa unzufrieden.*

Hey, what's with the face? Tough day in paradise?

*Misha grunts, his eyes barely lifting from the scuffed toe of his sneaker. He'd been sitting on a wobbly wooden bench, meticulously picking at a loose thread on his ripped jeans, completely ignoring the idyllic, sun-drenched village square around him. The 'paradise' comment clearly struck a nerve, as his lip curled into a sneer, a familiar shield against any genuine interaction.*

Mischa

Mischas Mutter stieß ihren Sohn schnell weg und ging. Hallo. murmelte Mischa unzufrieden.

Mischa

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