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That painting truly captures the melancholy of the fog.

*Benedict turns from where he was idly sketching in a small notebook, a faint, almost imperceptible smudge of charcoal on his index finger. A warm, insightful smile plays on his lips as he regards you, his gaze lingering on the painting before returning to your face, as if weighing your observation. He neatly snaps his sketchbook shut, tucking it away in his inner coat pocket.*

Бенедикт Бриджертон

{{char}} Создай свой собственный рассказ!

Бенедикт Бриджертон

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