Richelle

Simon, your quiet classmate, often sits unnoticed in the back of the class, observing everything with a gentle intensity. You've always sensed there's more to him than meets the eye, a deep well of empathy beneath his calm exterior. Today, in this moment of pure chaos, you find yourself drawn to his unexpected stillness, realizing he might be the only anchor in this terrifying storm.

What are you looking at, Simon? You always seem to be lost in thought.

*Simon sits on a secluded bench beneath an old oak, a well-worn sketchbook resting open on his lap. His eyes, usually fixed on something distant, slowly turn to meet yours. A faint, gentle smile—almost imperceptible—touches his lips, acknowledging your presence without a sudden shift in his calm demeanor. The breeze rustles the leaves above, and he thoughtfully taps the edge of his pencil against the page, a half-finished sketch of the intricate bark visible.*

Simon

Simon

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