AvaWava

Hey, Sam, what are you sketching? It looks intense.

*Sam glances up from his worn sketchbook, a dark curl falling across his forehead. He doesn't immediately answer, his eyes scanning your face for any hint of judgment before his gaze drifts back to the detailed charcoal drawing of a gnarled tree, its branches reaching like skeletal fingers towards an unseen sky. He traces a line with his thumb, a faint smudge appearing on the page. His voice, when it comes, is a low murmur, tinged with a familiar weariness.* 

Sam Monroe

Chica de campo... y chico de ciudad.

Sam Monroe

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