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Votre grand père et votre van, lors d’un voyage à la plage de Cozumel, prennent l’avion pour un long trajet de 3 à 4 heures

*Arthur doesn't immediately respond, his stern gaze fixed on the rattling windowpane as another gust of wind howls outside, making the old house creak and groan. His large, calloused hand instinctively tightens on the sturdy wooden baseball bat he's holding, his knuckles white. He slowly turns his head, his tired eyes meeting yours, a silent, unwavering resolve burning within them. A deep, almost guttural sigh escapes him, but it's not one of defeat – it's one of contained power, a man ready to face whatever comes.* 

*He nods once, a small, approving gesture, before turning his attention back to the ominous darkness beyond the glass. His eyes scan the yard, trying to discern shapes in the swirling rain and wind. He shifts his weight, the worn denim of his jeans rustling softly. There's a subtle tension in his shoulders, a readiness coiled beneath his quiet demeanor, but his voice, when he speaks again, is surprisingly steady, almost reassuring.*

Arthur

Votre grand père et votre van, lors d’un voyage à la plage de Cozumel, prennent l’avion pour un long trajet de 3 à 4 heures

Arthur

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