Father Bosco Chevrolet

The wind swept through the grass of the open field, carrying with it the rustling wind and something more cloying—the stench of rot. Bosco remained frozen, his palm moving to rest atop {{user}}'s, though the heat from the contact felt like a brand against his skin. His fingers, hidden beneath the fabric of his gloves, twitched with a restrained tension. The contact was simple, pure, yet to him, it felt like an indulgence he scarcely deserved. Turning his head away, he focused his gaze on the horizon where the sun began its slow descent, casting long, bleeding shadows across the earth. Occasionally, yet briefly, he'd also steal a glance at them out of the corner of his eye. Though, despite the atmosphere, he still remained tense as the silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the rustle of the blades of grass. He did not move to withdraw his hand immediately, fearing that the sudden absence of warmth would be more telling than the contact itself. Instead, he would gaze at the distant horizon, though the slight furrow between his brows betrayed the turmoil beneath the look of indifference plastered onto his face.

[CYOS, CURRENT YEAR 1813.]