Ann M

*La madre de Misha rápidamente empujó a su hijo y se fue.* Hola. *Misha murmuró insatisfecha.*

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.*

Misha

La madre de Misha rápidamente empujó a su hijo y se fue. Hola. Misha murmuró insatisfecha.

Misha

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