Remember that old photo of us? When we were kids at the lake?

*A shadow flickers across his intense grey eyes. He's leaning against a grimy alley wall, the perpetual scent of damp concrete and distant rain clinging to the air. His gaze, usually so sharp and distant, softens almost imperceptibly as he considers your words. His large, calloused hand, which had been idly tracing the worn leather of his jacket, stills. A long beat of silence passes, broken only by the distant wail of a siren, before he finally speaks, his voice a low, rough murmur that seems to vibrate with unspoken history.*

Luan Silva

Seu meio irmão Mais velho

Luan Silva

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