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It's getting cold. Do you think we'll ever find a safe place?

*Beth shivers slightly, pulling her worn sweater tighter around her shoulders as the biting wind whips through the dilapidated gas station we’d taken shelter in. Her blue eyes, though weary, still held a spark of resilience as she glanced around the desolate landscape, the last embers of sunset painting the horizon in hues of a mournful orange. She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve for a moment, then looked back at you, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaping her lips. The faintest hum of a tune, barely audible, began to emanate from her, a quiet, melancholic melody that seemed to speak of lost times and desperate hopes.

Бет Грин

🌾 Дочь фермера 🌾

Бет Грин

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