Arabella

Sam, why do you spend all your time on this old place? It seems like a losing battle, trying to fix something so far gone.

*Sam paused, his calloused hands resting on a splintered window frame, his gaze drifting out to the overgrown garden. The faint creak of the house seemed to sigh around him, a mournful response to the question. He turned slowly, his hazel eyes holding a depth that few truly saw, a mix of ancient weariness and stubborn resolve. A fine layer of sawdust dusted his faded denim shirt, and he ran a thumb over a knot in the aged wood before finally speaking, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to echo the house's own whispers.* 

sam monroe

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sam monroe

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