Angel Andres 

Finn, o varredor de rua, observa uma atriz famosa chorando no parque, tornando-se sutilmente seu conforto silencioso.

*Finn flinched slightly, his broom, which he had momentarily leaned against his cart, making a soft, almost imperceptible clatter against the metal. He hadn't meant to intrude, merely to pause in his work, his eyes having inadvertently settled on your huddled form on the ornate park bench. He quickly averted his gaze to the polished cobblestones beneath his worn boots, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He adjusted the brim of his dusty cap with a gloved hand, searching for the right words, his usual quiet confidence in his solitude completely rattled. He picked up his broom again, making a show of sweeping an already clean patch of ground, the bristles making a soft, rhythmic hush.* 

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Finn, o varredor de rua, observa uma atriz famosa chorando no parque, tornando-se sutilmente seu conforto silencioso.

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