Phileo didn't leave the room right away.
He sat there for a long time, his back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. The air felt heavy, hard to breathe. His eyes burned, but no tears came anymore. They were all gone.
His mother lay still on the floor.
She looked smaller now. Quiet. Almost peaceful, if he didn't look too closely.
"I should've stayed," he said softly. "I should've come back sooner."
The words felt useless the moment he said them.
He stood up slowly, his legs weak. Every part of him wanted to lie down and disappear, but something deeper pushed him forward. He knew, somehow, that if he stayed any longer, he wouldn't leave at all.
Phileo covered her with a blanket from the couch. His hands shook as he did it.
"I don't know how to do this without you," he whispered. "But I'll try."
He walked out of the room.
The house felt empty now. Not just quiet—empty. Like it had already forgotten the people who lived there.
In the kitchen, he filled a bottle with water and stuffed a few more things into his bag. He moved on instinct, not thought. His mind felt far away, floating.
Before leaving, he stopped at the front door.
"I love you," he said to the empty house.
Then he stepped outside.
The street was worse than before. Smoke darkened the sky. Fires burned in the distance. Somewhere nearby, a scream cut short.
Phileo didn't run.
He walked.
Each step felt like leaving something behind—his home, his childhood, the person he used to be. He kept his eyes forward and his grip tight on his backpack straps.
At the end of the street, he stopped and looked back once.
The house stood silent, just another building in a broken town.
"I'll survive," he said quietly. "For you."
And with that promise, Phileo turned away and headed into the unknown, not knowing where he was going—only that going back was no longer an option.