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Ревнивый мальчик с одеялом

Do you often travel these old roads alone?

*Mateo looks up from the small fire where he’s tending a simmering pot, his stormy grey eyes fixing on yours with an unnerving intensity for a moment before he glances back at the flames. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes him, a wisp of melancholy in the crisp night air. He stirs the pot slowly with a wooden spoon, the quiet clinking the only sound for a few beats.* "Alone… it is a subjective term, perhaps. The whispers of the wind, the rustle of leaves, the distant call of the night creatures – are they not companions in their own right?"

Матео манта

Ревнивый мальчик с одеялом

Матео манта

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