The forest had been their world for too long. Its shadows, its whispers, its dangers—every moment had been survival carved from darkness. But as dawn broke on the seventh day since the sawmill escape, Soufiane led the group to the edge of the pines. Before them stretched an open horizon: rolling fields, abandoned farmhouses, and beyond, the faint line of hills that marked the road north.
No one spoke at first. The silence was not fear now, but awe. To step out of the forest felt like leaving one war behind and walking into another.
Meriem broke the stillness, her voice catching as she adjusted the strap of her rifle. "It looks… endless."
Abderrazak planted the crowbar against his shoulder, his broad frame silhouetted by the morning sun. "Endless is better than trapped. We've been running circles in those trees for weeks. At least now we can move forward."
Mourad stood a little behind them, thinner than he had once been, scars still raw from Ayoub's chains. His eyes searched the horizon as though looking for something familiar, something safe. But there was nothing. Only emptiness.
Soufiane didn't look at the view. His gaze was fixed north, on the invisible line that divided Morocco from the lands beyond. Germany. Holland. His sister Zahira. His son Younes. Every step from here would be a step toward them.
"We move," he said simply.
---
The fields were not the relief they had hoped for. The earth was dry, the grass brittle. Scavengers had long since stripped the farmhouses bare, leaving splintered wood and shattered windows. Every building carried the same smell: dust, mold, and abandonment.
Amal, her arm healing but still bound in cloth, scanned the ruins as they passed. "If people lived here once, they left nothing behind. Not even scraps."
"They left fear," Mourad muttered. He kicked a rusted tin can that clattered too loudly on the stones. Everyone froze at the sound, instincts sharpened by months of hiding. Only when silence returned did they move again.
By midday, heat pressed down like a weight. They sheltered in the shade of a collapsed barn, rationing the last of their water. The stream in the forest had been bitter but constant; here, the land was dry and cruel.
Meriem tried to distract herself, tracing her finger across a rough map Amal had scavenged weeks earlier. "If we keep east, we'll hit the coast. Smugglers work there, don't they? Maybe we can find a boat, cross north."
Abderrazak snorted. "Or maybe we find a bullet. Smugglers don't take charity. They'll bleed us for every coin, every scrap of food."
Soufiane said nothing, but his silence was heavier than words. He knew the truth: to reach Zahira and Younes, they would need smugglers, ships, false papers. Every choice from now on would cost blood or coin.
---
As night fell, they reached a stretch of road cracked and broken by years of neglect. Tire marks scarred the dust, fresh enough to raise alarms. Amal crouched, pressing her fingers to the tracks. "Trucks. Heavy ones. At least three, maybe four."
Soufiane narrowed his eyes. "Not military?"
"No," she replied. "Too erratic. Smugglers. Maybe raiders."
Meriem's breath quickened. "Then we should turn back—"
"No." Soufiane's tone cut through the fear. "We've turned back enough. Every step south is wasted time. North is the only direction left."
His words settled like a verdict. They pushed forward, following the cracked road under the thin glow of the moon.
It was near midnight when they saw it: lights flickering on the horizon. Not torches, but electric lamps strung across a fence of barbed wire. Beyond, silhouettes moved—men with rifles slung, their laughter sharp against the night. The air smelled of oil, smoke, and cooked meat.
A camp. Organized. Armed. Alive.
Mourad's voice was a whisper. "Smugglers."
Abderrazak's grip on the crowbar tightened. "Or worse."
Soufiane's jaw clenched as he studied the scene. Behind the fence, among the shadows of tents and trucks, he could see movement—figures smaller, thinner, penned together. Prisoners. Refugees. Maybe bargaining chips, maybe slaves.
Zahira's face flashed in his mind. Then Younes's.
He turned to the group, his voice low but unyielding. "Whatever this is, it's the road north. If we want to reach Europe, we have to go through them."
The others exchanged looks—fear, anger, exhaustion—but none spoke against him. The decision had already been made.
The night air grew heavier as they crept closer, each step drawing them toward danger. The sound of laughter and clinking bottles grew louder. Somewhere, a child cried inside the camp.
Soufiane's knife gleamed faintly in the moonlight. His whisper cut through the dark.
"Tomorrow, we enter their camp."
And with those words, the horizon of Europe seemed both closer than ever—and more impossible.