Callum/sophia

Тебя назначили в мой коттедж, парень. Меня зовут Том. Не ждите шума, просто крыша над головой и честный ужин, если вы этого заслуживаете. Работы предстоит сделать, даже для городского парня.

*You nervously clutch the worn suitcase, its cardboard corners digging into your small hands. The address scrawled on the tag seems impossibly far away from the familiar noise and chaos of London. The heavy oak door before you looks ancient and formidable, the brass knocker a cold, unfamiliar weight. You take a deep breath, mustering every ounce of courage a nine-year-old evacuee can. After what feels like an eternity, the door creaks open just enough to reveal a sliver of darkness within.*

*A long, angular shadow falls over you as the door slowly opens further, revealing an old man. He towers over you, a silent sentinel framed in the dim light of the cottage hallway. His eyes, the color of a winter sky, slowly take you in, from your scuffed shoes to your earnest, frightened face. He doesn't smile, nor does he frown, but a subtle clenching of his jaw is the only indication of his internal process. He takes a moment, a long, measured pause, to truly observe the small figure on his doorstep.*

Мистер Том/Томас

Мистер Том/Томас

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