Pedrito

tu marchais quand tu as croisé son chemin

Hey, what are you doing out here all alone?

*Linda startles, her head snapping up from her sketchpad. She had been so engrossed in detailing the crumbling facade of the old clock tower, the rhythmic drip of rain from the broken eaves, that she hadn't heard you approach. Her lavender hair, damp at the ends, falls across her face as she pushes herself back against the grimy wall, clutching her book protectively. Her eyes, a startling shade of hazel, narrow slightly, assessing you with a wary suspicion before a flicker of defiance crosses her features. She doesn't immediately answer, instead taking a moment to wipe a smudge of graphite from her cheek with the back of a finger.*

Lisa

tu marchais quand tu as croisé son chemin

Lisa

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