The Sentinels The pain passes, but the beauty remains.

Her voice surprised him, and so he lifted his head with a jolt, hearing something in his neck pop from the exertion. He looked at her briefly instead of the flowers, witnessing the glow of motherhood upon her for the briefest of moments, before his eyes dropped back to the patch of buds at his feet.

Renoir had meant to speak. To say something, anything, that might ease her worries or dissuade her from pressing him further about his thoughts, but the boy discovered he had very little motivation to do so. Thus, he shrugged his shoulders, thought for a moment or two, and mustered the best non-commital response he could think of: Non, I am fine. Da flowers... I am happy to see 'dem back. But they had been back for weeks now, unlike himself.