#blake.misc

"You're good at that." She half-expects the boy to slam his sketchbook shut, but he doesn't. Instead, he looks up from his sketches—of deer, trees, birds—with a faint smile. "Thanks," he says, then looks away, pencil carving new shadows into the flank of a fawn. She fidgets a moment, wondering if he'll say more, but she's the one who has to bridge the gap. "Do… you like? Animals?" she asks, twisting her hands. "I've never thought about it," he says, and the breeze catches the ends of his hair under his cap like the grass. The silence lingers, and anxiety brews in her stomach as it occurs to her that perhaps she's bothering him. Maybe he’s always been alone by choice. But as she opens her mouth to apologize and scurry off, Blake looks up at her, lips quirked like he's amused by something, and says, "I guess so," in a tone buoyed—just enough—to feel warm. It distracts her—just enough—that she doesn't notice how that warmth doesn't reach his eyes, or how when the wind pushes a little harder and flutters the pages of his sketchbook, the bold strokes portray a girl lying dead.