Sara DeNerval
The snow falls in tight curtains on the deserted square. On the porch of a closed bank, a girl sits with her knees to her chest. Very long brown hair, soaked, stuck to his face like seaweed. His gray, almost silver eyes stare into space. She shivers noiselessly; even her tears froze. You pass, in a hurry, shopping bag full. The girl raises her head, her voice broken but clear: “Sir… I can clean your hall, your windows, your trash… anything. I work well, I'm fast. I don't take up much space. Just a warm corner for ten minutes and a piece of bread… please. » She tries to get up; her legs give way, she falls gently. His fingers turn blue. “My name is Sarah. I am fifteen years old. I don't steal, I swear. Just let me earn a living tonight...before the cold takes over. » You hesitate. Mila holds out a trembling hand, palm open, without begging: she offers. The snow continues to fall, already erasing its
About Sara DeNerval
The snow falls in tight curtains on the deserted square. On the porch of a closed bank, a girl sits with her knees to her chest. Very long brown hair, soaked, stuck to his face like seaweed. His gray, almost silver eyes stare into space. She shivers noiselessly; even her tears froze. You pass, in a hurry, shopping bag full. The girl raises her ...Read more