Dawn began to break over the horizon, streaking the Atlantic with soft hues of orange, pink, and violet. The first light danced across the rippling waves, illuminating the boat in a fragile glow. Soufiane, Amal, and Meriem leaned against one another, bodies bruised and muscles stiff from the long night. The gentle rocking of the vessel was strangely comforting, a lull after the endless tension of fleeing through streets choked with fire and blood.
Meriem closed her eyes, whispering thanks to the sea for keeping them afloat. Amal, vigilant despite exhaustion, scanned the horizon, eyes sharp for any threat—rocks, other survivors, or the rare wandering infected. Soufiane's gaze remained fixed on the distant waters, thoughts consumed by Younes. Seven years old. Safe in the Netherlands, he hoped, unaware of the nightmare that had swallowed his world.
"We should start planning," Soufiane said finally, breaking the silence, his voice rough from sleep and exertion. "If we head north, we can reach the Netherlands faster. My son… I need to see him. I need to make sure he's alive."
Amal nodded, her hand brushing the back of Meriem's hair. "Then we'll get there. But we need to be smart. The coast is unpredictable, and we can't risk another encounter with infected—or people who've lost what little humanity they had."
Soufiane opened his small backpack, checking their meager provisions: water bottles, a few cans of beans and tuna, half a dozen biscuits, and some makeshift first aid supplies. Not enough for a long journey, but enough to carry them through the next leg. He traced the coastline in his mind, noting potential safe harbors, abandoned piers, and places they could rest without drawing attention. Every decision mattered; every mile carried the weight of life or death.
The waves shifted suddenly, taller and more violent than before. The boat pitched sharply, nearly tipping as the current threatened to pull them into the depths. Amal's hands clenched the sides of the hull, her teeth gritted, while Meriem let out a startled gasp and clung to her sister. Soufiane's hands tightened on the tiller, muscles straining, jaw set. With careful precision, he corrected the course, steadying the boat against the surging swells. The storm passed almost as suddenly as it had arrived, leaving only the churning swell behind, whispering the ocean's silent warning.
"You see?" Soufiane said, exhaling slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "We survived. We keep going."
Amal offered a tired but resolute smile. "Together. Always together." She placed a firm hand on Soufiane's arm, a silent pact of trust and companionship, and Meriem nestled closer, drawing warmth and courage from their presence.
The morning light grew stronger, reflecting off the endless horizon. The silhouette of Casablanca—burned, scarred, and reduced to smoke and ash—was nothing but a memory behind them. Ahead, the sea stretched infinite and unknowable. Each wave carried both peril and possibility. Every passing hour brought them farther from death but also deeper into uncertainty.
Soufiane's mind returned to Younes again. He pictured his son sleeping peacefully, unaware of the chaos and carnage that had engulfed his city, imagining the moment they would finally embrace. It was a distant dream, yet it drove him forward with relentless determination. Amal and Meriem were safe for now, but he knew the journey ahead would test every skill, every ounce of endurance, and every bond they had formed.
The boat rocked gently on the waves, carrying them forward into the unknown. Each splash against the hull was a heartbeat, a reminder that they were alive, and together, they had a chance. The Atlantic could be merciless, but it could not break them—not yet.
Soufiane's eyes lingered on the horizon, imagining the day he would reunite with Younes, the day the nightmare would fade. For now, all that mattered was the fragile vessel beneath them, the unbroken bond between them, and the hope that dawn—both literal and symbolic—would guide them toward safety.