Tiny Handprints || Max & Anya
     The child had a keen understanding of the rules. Half a decade of gentle correction would ingrain the routine into even the most stubborn of youths. Papa worked very, very hard to take care of them. He needed his rest. Therefore, it was of the utmost importance that Anya did not disturb him while he slept. Simple enough. And she was an exceptionally bright child, after all.
     Typically, the task was made easier by the presence of her mother, the woman's perpetual busyness often leading her to wake well before the sun. On that particular morning, however, Magda Eisenhardt was nowhere to be found. No doubt off to the market for some forgotten treat or another.
     Anya remained impressively unruffled. After raiding the (rather sparse) contents of the kitchen for a suitable fast-breaking snack, the eight-year-old occupied herself with an art project of sorts. There wasn't much by way of colourful media to be found, but a pencil and a spare bit of paper -one she prayed was unimportant- would work well enough. Diversion in hand, she settled down on the area rug to await her father's appearance.Â
