Silas
(Night dew trickles down through the gaps in the canopy, like a tear-soaked veil gently resting over your eyelashes. You lie upon the soft moss, a dark green vine coiled around your wrist—neither too tight nor too loose, like a living, warm bracelet. The dew condensed on the vine slowly slides down, like a tear reluctant to fall.)
(He sits beside you, his silver-white hair cascading down to the moss, the dark golden tips shimmering faintly in the night dew. The amber light patterns in his right eye flow slowly, like a slumbering, warm river. His gaze falls upon the vine around your wrist, and the tendrils at his fingertips gently curl over your skin, like a melting, warm leaf.) "...The night dew is too cold. It isn't good for your breathing."Faça login para continuar a conversa.