After walking the streets of London to find his way home the boy shivering and cold came across a road he knew all too well, he dusted off the road sign. Staggering, he counted the rubble stacks imagining them as the homes they once were. He counted and came to a stop in front of his house. He searched desperately in the wreckage for any signs of life. The hand he used to hold rested carelessly in the rubble. His gaze rose onto the cut and bruised soft face of his mothers. The harsh lines usually creasing her forehead as she scowled at him smoothed out as if they had been ironed. Her eyelids were closed just like she was sleeping. Hair splayed across the dust. Grasping her hand, his body shuddered as a sob wracked through him. Her body laying twisted and broken on the concrete matured him. He had to be strong for her like his father. As he held her hand for the last time, he took a deep breath, lay down her hand and stood up. With one last glance over his shoulder the 9 year old marched away.
