holy-angel-metatron

Mrs. K. ran her fingers through her auburn hair in puzzlement as her charge looked up at her with pleading violet eyes.  She looked at Maxwell's earnest, unsure frown, his index fingers tapping against each other in front of the delicate flower he had picked, roots and all, and the nervous flexing of his toes beneath the leather straps of his sandals.  She knelt down on one knee, and brushed a clump of dirt off of his "Little Angel" shirt before she started to talk to him, "You don't usually like to go there in the summer, Maxie, so I'm a little surprised.  Can you tell me why?"  Though her regal face wore a soft, warm smile, Mrs. K.'s nephew