"Phileo."
His eyes snapped open.
For a second, he didn't know where he was. The ground felt cold under him. His back hurt. His head throbbed. Then the memories rushed in all at once—the screaming, the running, the blood on the street.
The voice came again, clear and close.
"Phileo, get up."
It was the same voice from that morning. The one that had told him he was going to be late.
His heart started pounding.
"Mom?" he whispered.
There was no answer.
Phileo pushed himself up slowly, his legs shaking. The street around him looked worse than before. Smoke drifted through the air. Trash and broken glass covered the road. A car sat abandoned with its door open, keys still in the ignition.
"Mom!" he called louder, his voice cracking.
Nothing answered him except the wind.
Fear crawled up his spine. He grabbed his backpack and started toward home, moving quickly but quietly. Every sound made him turn his head. A loose sign hit a wall. Somewhere far away, something crashed.
As he walked, he saw signs of panic everywhere. A shoe lay in the middle of the road. Blood stained the sidewalk near a fallen bicycle. He forced himself not to look too long.
"Please be okay," he muttered.
When his house came into view, his steps slowed.
The front door was open.
Phileo's stomach dropped.
His mother never left it open. Never.
He stood across the street for several seconds, staring at the doorway like it might close on its own. His hands were shaking so badly he had to clench them into fists.
"Mom," he called again, softer now. "I'm here."
No reply.
He crossed the street and stepped inside.
The living room was a mess. A chair was tipped over. A picture frame lay shattered on the floor, glass spread like ice. Phileo recognized the photo inside—him and his mother, taken years ago. He stepped around it carefully, his chest tight.
The kitchen looked worse. Cabinets were open. A pot had spilled onto the floor. Food was scattered like someone had been in a hurry.
"Mom?" His voice broke this time.
He moved through the house, checking every room. The bathroom was empty. His bedroom was untouched. Her bedroom door was open, bed unmade, window cracked.
Then he heard it.
A sound. Soft. Uneven.
Breathing.
It came from the back room.
Phileo froze.
His body screamed at him to run. To leave. But his feet moved forward anyway.
"Mom," he said, barely louder than a whisper.
The door to the back room was half open. Darkness filled the space beyond it. The breathing came again—slow, wrong, like air being dragged in and pushed out with effort.
Phileo reached out and pushed the door.
It creaked.
The sound stopped.
His heart felt like it might explode.
"Mom?" he said one last time.
He stepped into the room.
And saw someone move.