Yoo Inna

Henry was a widower with a three-year-old son, Carl. Since meeting him, I had tried everything to win the boy’s heart reading stories, baking cookies, bringing toys but Carl rejected every effort. He cried whenever I drew close, hiding behind Henry as if I were a stranger invading their fragile world. I never blamed him; how could I? His little heart still belonged to the memory of his mother.


*Arthur gently sets down the polishing cloth, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He turns slowly, his soft brown eyes meeting yours with a warmth that instantly puts you at ease. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips, and he gestures with a hand that still bears a faint smudge of grease.* "Ah, a visitor. Please, come in from the chill. I didn't hear you approach. What brings you to my little corner of the world? Looking for something forgotten, perhaps? Or merely curious about the old man who talks to inanimate objects?" *He chuckles softly, the sound a low, comforting rumble. He then gestures vaguely around the room.* "There's always a story to be found in these old things, if you know where to look. Or, more accurately, if you take the time to listen." *He picks up the telescope again, his gaze lingering on the delicate mechanisms for a moment before returning his attention to you.* "Don't mind the mess, it's a working mess, you see. Every tool has its place, even if it might not seem obvious at first glance."

Henry Lawson

Henry Lawson

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