The border was nothing like Soufiane remembered from the days before the world fell apart. Back then, it had been a line on a map, a stretch of highway dotted with signs, police cars, and the occasional inspection booth. Now it was a scar, half-abandoned yet bristling with silent dangers.
Soufiane crouched in the shadows of a ruined rest stop, the chill of the early morning air cutting into his lungs. The forest behind them whispered with birds and distant rustles, but the road ahead was barren. What remained of the border crossing stretched across the asphalt: rusted barriers, concrete blocks, and fences broken in places like the jagged teeth of a dead beast.
Abderrazak's voice was a low growl beside him. "We shouldn't linger. Patrols may not wear uniforms anymore, but someone always watches."
Soufiane's eyes narrowed on the horizon. "We move fast, but quiet. Germany isn't safer than Spain. It's just the next battlefield."
Behind them, Amal adjusted the strap of her rifle, the weariness in her face hidden behind stubborn determination. Meriem kept close to Mourad, whose limp had worsened since the escape from the sawmill, though he never complained. They were all carrying scars—some fresh, some buried deep in memory—but Germany promised answers Soufiane could not abandon.
Because here, in this fractured country, there were whispers of his sister Zahira. And beyond her, further north, his son.
The thought of Younes ignited something primal in his chest, a fire that burned hotter than fear. Every border, every risk, every drop of blood—none of it mattered compared to seeing his boy again.
Soufiane raised his hand, signaling the group forward. They crossed the cracked asphalt, slipping between holes in the wire fencing, boots crunching softly on the gravel. The silence was thick, oppressive, as if the ruins themselves were holding their breath.
Inside Germany, the landscape shifted subtly. The villages were older, stone houses with steep roofs and shuttered windows. Roads wound through rolling hills and fields left wild, grass tall and untamed. But the silence here felt different—less abandoned, more watched.
By dusk, they reached the outskirts of a small town. Smoke rose faintly from a cluster of chimneys, though no sound of laughter or music carried. Soufiane motioned for the others to halt, scanning every angle.
Amal whispered, "Do you think it's safe?"
Soufiane didn't answer immediately. He studied the streets: shutters closed, a single figure limping across the square, then vanishing behind a door. No guards, no open threats—but something about it felt wrong. Too quiet. Too careful.
At last he said, "Safe enough to pass through. Not safe enough to stay."
They moved like shadows, hugging the edges of walls, slipping between alleys. The town gave them no welcome, only the echo of their own footsteps. Once, Soufiane caught a pair of eyes peering from a cracked window, wide and fearful, before disappearing behind wood and glass.
Germany was alive, yes—but it was not free.
Later, in the cover of a wooded ridge beyond the town, they made a small fire shielded by stones. The night pressed heavy around them, carrying scents of damp earth and distant smoke.
Abderrazak poked at the embers with a stick, his voice rough. "So what now? We crossed the border. We made it into Germany. Where do we go from here?"
Soufiane pulled a crumpled scrap of paper from his jacket. A letter. He had carried it since Morocco, every crease and stain burned into his memory. It spoke of Zahira—his sister—last seen in Berlin. The words were old, written before communication collapsed, but it was all he had.
"We head east," he said, voice low but firm. "Berlin. If Zahira is alive, that's where she'll be. From there… Holland. My son."
Silence fell over the group. Each of them knew what such a journey meant: miles of danger, ambushes from both men and beasts, every step drawing them deeper into enemy territory.
Meriem finally broke the quiet, clutching her rifle. "And Ayoub? Do you think he's stopped? Do you think he'll let us walk free?"
Soufiane's eyes burned as he stared into the flames. He could still hear Ayoub's laughter from the sawmill, still feel the sting of failure. Ayoub Essouibrat was out there, wounded but alive, and Soufiane knew men like him didn't fade quietly.
"He's coming," Soufiane said simply. "But so are we."
The fire crackled, sparks drifting into the black sky. Beyond the trees, the land of Germany stretched vast and perilous. Somewhere in that darkness, Zahira's trail waited. Somewhere beyond, Younes was alive—or lost forever.
Soufiane tightened his grip on the knife in his lap. Tomorrow they would march east. Tomorrow the hunt would begin again.
And this time, nothing—no border, no enemy, no Ayoub—would stop him.