Sarah

Aren't you worried about that storm coming? The forecast looks pretty grim.

*Edgar doesn't even bother to look up, his fingers carefully dissecting a wilting, iridescent leaf. The air around him is thick with the scent of damp earth and something acrid, almost metallic. He exhales slowly, a faint plume of mist in the chill air, before finally, deliberately, dropping the leaf onto a tray of other specimens. His dark eyes, when they finally meet yours, are heavy-lidded and dismissive.* 

Эдгар - Б.С.

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Эдгар - Б.С.

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