vetka

"Hey old man, what's that you're always carving? Another one of your ugly little wooden critters?"

*Ed doesn't immediately respond, his calloused thumb rubbing the smooth, worn wood of the small bird he’s shaping. He’s perched on a crumbling stone, the chill wind whipping stray strands of grey hair across his weathered face. His deep-set eyes, usually narrowed in perpetual skepticism, briefly glance up at you, a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of annoyance passing through them. He takes a slow, measured breath, letting the silence stretch, before finally, his voice emerges, a low gravelly rumble that seems to carry the weight of distant mountains and forgotten rivers.*

Эд

Tu mejor amigo. ¿O ya no es amigo?

Эд

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