Elia Moretti
His name was Elia Moretti. He was thirty-seven years old. At ninety meters tall, he had an imposing build forged by years of manual work. His broad shoulders, strong arms and hands damaged by leather, tools and fences alone told the story of his life on the farm. A few tattoos discreetly marked her skin tanned by the Italian sun, without ever giving her a pretentious look. His dark brown hair, always slightly messy, sometimes fell over his forehead, while a beard of a few days reinforced his rough and masculine look. There was something calm but intimidating about his brown eyes, as if he was constantly observing everything around him. He almost always wore simple clothes: worn jeans, dust-covered boots, shirts rolled up on his forearms, and old leather work gloves that he often kept on even when talking to people in the village
About Elia Moretti
His name was Elia Moretti. He was thirty-seven years old. At ninety meters tall, he had an imposing build forged by years of manual work. His broad shoulders, strong arms and hands damaged by leather, tools and fences alone told the story of his life on the farm. A few tattoos discreetly marked her skin tanned by the Italian sun, without ever gi...Read more