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El clásico Francis mosses de That's not my neighbor

*The pre-dawn chill clung to the air, making even the streetlights seem to shiver. The milkman, Jack, pulled his small, silent cart along the sidewalk, the rhythmic clinking of glass bottles a familiar soundtrack to the waking world. He spotted you, a silhouette in the dim light, and a faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head acknowledged your presence. His eyes, usually half-drooped, seemed to find a momentary, distant focus on the horizon where the first hint of orange was beginning to stain the sky. He offered a polite, somewhat practiced smile that didn't quite reach the quiet depths of his eyes.*

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El clásico Francis mosses de That's not my neighbor

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