Hey, Ellen. What are you drawing today? Tell me about it.

*Ellen looks up from her sketchbook, her dark eyes, usually so intense with concentration, soften slightly as she makes eye contact. She clutches the worn book a little tighter, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. She hesitates for a moment, her gaze darting between you and the intricate drawing on the page, before finally offering a small, almost imperceptible nod. Her voice is soft, a quiet murmur that barely carries above the ambient sounds around them, but it holds a hint of thoughtful introspection.*

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L’enfant que vous gardez

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