Night draped itself over the small cove, a deceptive calm following the chaos of the storm. The boat rocked gently on the black waves, the Atlantic whispering against its hull as if mocking their fragile sense of safety. Soufiane crouched near the bow, hands busy securing the supplies that might determine whether they survived the coming days. Amal hovered nearby, scanning the water and the cliffs above, while Meriem huddled under a thin, worn blanket, shivering from exhaustion and the lingering cold of the ocean.
Despite their fatigue, Soufiane remained alert, senses stretched taut. Every shadow, every ripple of water, seemed amplified in the darkness. Then he noticed movement—faint, almost imperceptible—along the distant cliffs. A ripple in the darkness, a shift in shape. His grip tightened around the machete.
"Stay quiet," he murmured, voice low but firm.
Amal squinted toward the cliffs, heart pounding. "Could be survivors… or worse," she whispered back.
They watched in tense silence as the figures moved slowly closer. Soufiane's mind raced, calculating distance, speed, potential threat. After everything—the fall of Casablanca, the chaos in Berrechid, surviving the storm—this was another test. The world beyond the ruins was unrelenting, a place where vigilance could mean the difference between life and death.
The shadows lingered for moments that stretched into eternity, then vanished as quickly as they had appeared, leaving only the cold, dark night and a lingering sense of unease. Soufiane exhaled, shoulders sagging slightly. "We keep moving at first light. No more stops. No risks. Every hour counts."
Meriem nodded silently, her wide eyes reflecting both fear and understanding. Amal rested a steadying hand on her shoulder. "We're together. Nothing will break us," she said softly, her voice carrying the quiet determination that had guided them through the storm.
Soufiane stared out across the black horizon, thoughts of Younes and Zahira pressing into him like a weight and a compass at the same time. The waves had tested their strength, the storm their endurance, and the shadows their vigilance. Every obstacle underscored the truth he had come to know: survival demanded more than luck—it required courage, trust, and relentless determination.
Hours passed in careful silence. The boat drifted slowly, each small motion a reminder of how fragile their reprieve was. Amal adjusted the supplies, securing them against another sudden wave, while Meriem's soft breathing suggested she had finally found a tentative peace in the presence of those she trusted.
For Soufiane, hope was fragile, like the glow of a distant lighthouse barely piercing the night. Yet, even in the darkness, it existed. Europe lay somewhere beyond this endless water. Younes was out there, waiting, unaware of the trials his father faced. And they had survived together—so far.
As the night deepened, the shadows faded completely, leaving only the gentle rhythm of waves beneath them. The cove seemed almost protective now, a temporary sanctuary in a world that offered none. Soufiane allowed himself a single thought, a quiet vow: the horizon ahead might be treacherous, but they would reach it. Somehow, they would reach Younes.
The boat drifted onward, carrying three souls through darkness, toward the unknown—but no longer aimlessly. For the first time in days, a fragile hope glimmered across the horizon, a promise that the end of their journey might yet exist.