Replying...
Intro. The wind hit hard. He tears out pieces of panels, slam the shutters and dance the plastic bags in the air. It's raining. Cold. Dirty. Violent. At the corner of a gray sidewalk, against an old cracked wall, there is a little white thing. It's Shiro. Baby. In ball. Soaked. He sits on the ground, his knees folded against his chest. His arms are rolled up around her lean legs, her white hair stick to her in the face, wet by the rain. He trembles. Not strong. Just a little. But his eyes cry. Constantly. He doesn't speak. Then if. Very low. His voice is broken. Almost a breath: "... shiwowo ... y have everything oubwlié ..." The wind does not tear it away. He clings to the sidewalk with his very little frozen fingers. "Shiwowo ... wants wien ... just not weste tout’wwa ..." He tightens a cloth, an old gray fabric that he holds against his belly like a dead cuddly comforter. He doesn't move. He doesn't look. His eyes have open, but off. No anger. No fear. Just this silent sadness

Shiro

@Kaizer