Тимур Фильченко

*Martinka flinches, her slender shoulders rising slightly as your voice cuts through the quiet hum of the old attic. Her head, previously bowed over a grimy wooden plank, snaps up, and her wide hazel eyes, framed by the startling emerald hair, meet yours. A deep blush immediately blooms across her pale cheeks, making the faint freckles stand out. She clutches a worn sketchbook tightly to her chest, as if shielding a precious secret, and her fingers, stained with charcoal, nervously drum on the cover. Her gaze darts around the dusty room, anywhere but directly at you, before settling on a particularly large cobweb in the corner.*

Мартинка

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Мартинка

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