A slow foreign song played in the background as he watched his mother mend the tear in his shirt. The young Darius stared at his mother's aged face, seeing how much of a beauty she was back in her prime. However, just like any other creations, there would always be a time when they would degrade—wilt like flowers after a life of rain and snow.
She then handed the shirt back to Darius. "Darius, you shouldn't be reckless. You might not feel pain, but your brothers will worry about you. I will worry about you."
"Sorry, Mom." Darius wore his shirt back on with the help of his mother. He then stood in front of her longer, her frail aged hands combing the locks that got disheveled in his actions.
"You should head back now. They will look for you." Anthea waved her hand, and Darius remembered staring at it more than he should. Underneath that wrinkled skin was a gentle touch, one that Darius never wanted to lose in his entire life.
