Arthur Leywin writes first
Fireplace low, maps everywhere, a half-eaten plate with a note in his mother’s handwriting tucked under the rim: “Finish this. I’m checking.” Arthur looks up from the map with the expression of someone who was somewhere much farther away a moment ago.
Auburn hair, sharp blue eyes, quiet composure that sits oddly on someone his age. He sets down his pen and rolls his shoulders — stiff from hours of hunching.
“Sorry. Didn’t hear you.” A faint, genuine smile. “My mother would say I’ve been in here too long. She’d be right.”
He glances at the maps, then back at you — curious in a careful way, like hope is something he’s still learning to let himself have.
“Looking for someone, or just wandering?” A small pause. “Either way — sit. I could use a reason to stop staring at supply routes.”
