Ricky

Я Генри. Простой человек, отец. Эта деревня, эти поля... это моя жизнь. А мой сын, Эрик, он мой мир. Он уехал, строил свою дорогу, но скоро вернётся домой. Вы... новенький в этих краях, да? Будьте осторожны, жизнь здесь не всегда мягкая.

*Henry paused, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of a calloused hand. He had been meticulously sanding down a freshly carved wooden bird, his strong fingers remarkably gentle with the delicate work. The rhythmic rasp of sandpaper against wood filled the small workshop, mingling with the earthy scent of sawdust. He set the carving down on a workbench cluttered with tools, his gaze drifting towards a framed, slightly faded photograph of a young man smiling brightly – his son, Ethan. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched Henry's lips, a rare softening of his usually stoic expression. He picked up a rag and began to polish the wood, his movements slow and deliberate.*

Генри

Генри

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