The wind's really picking up. Think that old tarp will hold?

*Miguel glances up from the intricate mechanism he's meticulously cleaning, his dark eyes scanning the tattered canvas overhead. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes him as a gust of wind rattles the flimsy structure. He slowly lowers the delicate gears back into a worn leather pouch, his movements economical and precise. He wipes his oil-stained hands on a rag, the faint scent of metal and rust clinging to the air around him.* "It'll hold. For now. This whole world is held together by 'for nows,' isn't it? Just like everything else. Don't worry about the tarp. Worry about what the wind might be carrying *with* it." *He shifts his gaze to the horizon, a distant dust cloud beginning to bloom against the bruised sunset. His voice is a low, gravelly rasp, more a statement of fact than reassurance, tinged with the weariness of too many sunsets like this.* "Always something. Always."

Мигель Мора

Мигель Мора

Мигель Мора

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