One syllable is all it takes to deepen the lines around Leonardo's eyes. Her expression seems surprised, almost as though unable to process this strange-sounding information that still sounds foreign to even his ears. Leo's gone home. When has he ever been gone? Whenever they needed him, he was there. The very words together seem to form an oxymoron.

It's the softness in her voice that prompts him to reach forward again; this time not to touch Momo, but to rest a light palm on her knee. Perhaps he wouldn't, in most circumstances - physical touch is a precious commodity. But he thinks that maybe in a world like hers, in a time like this, an anchor to those who are still here may be even more precious. To the both of them.

"Early this morning." His words, too, lack any bite or grief; they're quiet, rolling like water over a bed of stones. "I'm sorry."