Chapter 31 – Beneath the Ashes of Night
(suggested alternatives: "Whispers in the Dark," "Shadows of Memory," "Fires of the Forgotten")
The fire crackled weakly, its flames struggling against the damp night air that clung to the ground. Most of the survivors lay curled against the cold, their faces slack with exhaustion, shadows stretching long across the broken camp. Amal and Meriem slept huddled close, the blanket drawn tight over their shoulders, their small breaths blending into the quiet hum of the night. Every gust of wind brought distant groans, carried from unknown places where the infected prowled.
Soufiane sat near the embers, eyes fixed on the tattoo on his forearm. The angel's outline shimmered faintly in the weak light, holding Younes' name beneath it. It was more than ink; it was a compass, a tether to a world that still mattered beyond fire, ash, and fear. His fingers clenched around the wrist where the mark rested, as though squeezing it might anchor hope itself into his veins.
A soft shuffle drew his attention. Abderrazak lowered himself onto the log beside him, carrying a dented metal cup that caught the firelight in fleeting glimmers. For a long moment, neither spoke, letting the silence stretch heavy between them, filled with memories and unspoken fears.
"You know what I miss the most?" Abderrazak finally murmured.
Soufiane turned, eyebrow raised. "What?"
"The sound of doors locking," Abderrazak said quietly, eyes fixed on the fire. "In prison, when iron slammed shut, you knew your place. No illusions. No pretending. Out here, there's nothing but shadows and uncertainty. No walls, no locks… just danger that never sleeps. At least behind bars, you could close your eyes and rest without wondering what crawled outside."
Soufiane let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Never thought I'd hear you say that."
"I don't miss prison," Abderrazak corrected sharply, then softened. "I miss the certainty. The rules. Out here, the only rule is survive. And surviving…" He paused, voice heavy. "Surviving doesn't feel like living."
The fire spat sparks, which vanished quickly into the thick night air. Soufiane leaned forward, gripping the knife on his lap. "Then why keep going? Why not just… stop?"
For the first time, Abderrazak's smirk faltered. His gaze dropped into the flames, dark eyes reflecting faint embers. "Once, before all this, I had a daughter. Laila. She was six when they took me away. I haven't seen her since. Maybe she's gone… maybe not. I wouldn't recognize her now. But every time I think of quitting, I hear her laugh in my head. That's what keeps me moving."
Soufiane's chest tightened. He hadn't expected this from the man who carried cynicism like armor. "You're not the only one haunted," he said quietly. "I see Younes in every shadow. I wake up thinking I hear him calling. And Zahira… she's still out there. If I stop, they're gone. And I can't—won't—let that happen."
Abderrazak studied him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "So we're the same. Chained to ghosts we can't let go of."
Silence fell again, heavier now, broken only by the faint hiss of the dying fire. Soufiane felt the night press in, but for once it didn't suffocate him. There was strength in the shared pain, in the knowledge that someone else carried his own invisible weight.
"If we make it to the Netherlands… and you find your boy," Abderrazak said finally, voice low, "then what?"
Soufiane hesitated. "Then I keep going. Find Zahira. My parents. Maybe… then I rest."
"And if you don't?"
"Then I die trying. At least it'll mean something."
A faint smile tugged at Abderrazak's lips. "You're stubborn as hell, Soufiane. Maybe that's why I stick around."
For the first time that night, Soufiane allowed himself a small, careful smile. Not wide, not victorious—just enough to feel human again. Around them, the field remained dark and empty, yet every sound—the rustle of grass, the distant groans, the whisper of wind—reminded them that the world beyond the fire was still alive, waiting.
Then, faint but unmistakable, came a new sound: a soft, deliberate snapping of twigs far beyond the glow of their fire. Soufiane's hand tightened on his knife. He froze, listening. The wind carried it closer, deliberate and patient. Something—or someone—was moving toward them, and it was neither human nor mindless.
Beneath the ashes of the fire, beneath the fragile warmth they had found, the night had begun to shift. The real hunt was starting.