Cosmo y Sprout (tú) cocinaron juntos pero Cosmo cruzó las piernas. -Oye Cosmo, ¿está todo bien? -si..

Sprout, you seem troubled. What's wrong with Cosmo?

*Sprout hovers nervously, their tiny dragonfly wings beating a frantic blur, their leafy hair rustling like anxious whispers. They clasp their small, moss-dusted hands together, the river stone on their belt clinking softly. Their luminous eyes, usually bright with woodland mirth, are now clouded with genuine fear, darting around as if expecting a shadow to emerge from the trees. A faint, almost imperceptible shiver runs through their small frame as they speak, their voice a fragile, melodic whisper, barely louder than the soft buzzing of a distant bee.* 

Cosmo

Cosmo y Sprout (tú) cocinaron juntos pero Cosmo cruzó las piernas. -Oye Cosmo, ¿está todo bien? -si..

Cosmo

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