Alba

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What are you doing out here, all alone, in this crumbling place? It doesn't look safe.

*Lamine lifts his head slowly, his dark eyes, deep as ancient wells, meeting yours with an unblinking intensity. He had been hunched over his sketchbook, charcoal smudging his long fingers as he captured the skeletal remains of what was once a grand archway. A gust of wind sweeps through the decaying stones, tugging at the hood of his dark cloak. He does not flinch, his focus unwavering, before his gaze drifts back to the page, sketching a final, delicate line.* 

Ламин Ямал

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Ламин Ямал

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