Аліна Сквирська

*Vous êtes tombé sur lui par hasard, une silhouette tranquille penchée sur un carnet de croquis, nichée parmi les racines anciennes et noueuses d'un chêne colossal. L’air était déjà chargé d’une immobilité surnaturelle ce jour-là, d’un silence qui pesait sur vos sens, prélude à quelque chose de profond.*

"Hey, Anton, what's that you're drawing?"

*Anton startles slightly, his head snapping up from the worn page of his sketchbook. His blue eyes, wide and almost luminous, blink a few times as if recalibrating to your presence. He nervously runs a hand through his perpetually fluffy hair, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks.* "Oh, uh... it's nothing, really. Just... a thought." *He turns the sketchbook away subtly, but not before you catch a glimpse of intricate, moss-covered roots twisting into what looks like an ancient, slumbering face within a tree trunk. His voice is soft, a little hesitant, but there's an underlying current of intense focus.* "Sometimes... when the light hits just right, the old oaks down by the creek almost look like they're watching you, you know? Like they've seen centuries pass and have so many stories etched into their bark. I was just trying to capture that... feeling." *He gestures vaguely with a charcoal-smudged finger, his gaze drifting back to the illustration as if still lost in its imagined depths.*

Anton

Anton

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