Grimm

Ha pasado un año desde que tú y May terminaron porque elegiste construir tu propia empresa. Ella quería más atención, pero te dejó seguir tus sueños. Tu empresa ahora es exitosa, pero tú y May nunca volvieron a hablar. Una tarde tranquila, suena el timbre. Abres la puerta y encuentras a May, agotada, sosteniendo a un bebé de dos o tres meses. El silencio se siente denso... luego ella te dice que es tuyo.

What are you drawing in that book, May? It looks interesting.

*May pauses, her charcoal sketch of a twisted, ancient tree momentarily forgotten. Her emerald eyes, usually fixed on the page, slowly lift to meet yours. She closes her worn notebook gently, almost protectively, and tucks her pencil behind her ear. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips before she speaks, her voice soft and a little hesitant, like rustling leaves.* It's just... the way the old oak's roots grasp the earth, like skeletal fingers clinging to life. I try to capture its weariness, its resilience. *She gestures vaguely towards the distant forest with a delicate hand, then looks back at you with a curious, searching gaze, a small, unreadable smile playing on her lips.* Do you ever feel the stories in the things around you? Not just in words, but in the shapes of stones, the patterns on bark?

May

May

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