Finn yawns as he calmly trails his graphite pencil along his paper, sitting underneath his special tree. He’s sketching right now, but he has to do it precisely. He couldn’t break away from the contact the pencil had with the sketch just yet, because then he’d take the graphite off his canvas and the tip of the pencil would be uneven. It wouldn’t look even or have the same consistency as before. His elbow’s propped up on his stomach and his knees are drawn up as he yawns again, pressing his back to the bark of the old tree behind him. Instead of admiring the view, he’s too determined to capture the landscape to memory on his paper, eyes straining at the sketchpad with a soft smile on his face.