Judio ran his fingers along the edge of his bayong, its woven strands smooth and firm beneath his touch. The basket, crafted from the finest buntal fibers, was the work of his mother's hands—each weave a labor of care, each knot an unspoken prayer for his safety. Its warm ochre hue shimmered faintly under the morning sun, patterns of interwoven vines curling across its sides, as if whispering farewells of their own.
Inside, his belongings were neatly packed: spare sets of tunics and trousers, a handwoven blanket, a sealed packet of dried fruits and nuts, and a small carved wooden charm his mother had slipped inside without a word. A piece of home, to keep him from straying too far.
Lena, his mother, stood beside him, gently folding his last tunic into the bayong. Her hands—calloused from years of tending to both hearth and wounds—moved with steady care, her fingers smoothing the fabric with the tenderness only a mother could give.
