The forest pressed heavy and silent around them as Soufiane led his sister Zahira and her children through the undergrowth. The fog of battle still clung to his lungs, every breath reminding him of what they had endured. Behind him, Amal and Abderrazak moved with the practiced caution of survivors, their eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of pursuit. But for the first time in days, there was no gunfire, no screams—only the creak of branches and the muffled sobs of exhausted children.
Abderrazak slowed his steps and gestured toward a slope half-hidden by brambles. "Here," he whispered. "There should be an old cellar nearby. Farmers used to hide supplies during the war. If it's intact, it will serve us well."
The group followed, pushing through the tangled brush until they found a heavy wooden hatch buried under vines and soil. Amal pried it open with a knife, the hinges groaning but holding. A stale wave of air rose up, but it carried safety more than threat. One by one, they descended the narrow steps, their lantern casting long shadows against stone walls that had not seen light for decades.
The shelter was cramped but secure. Rows of rotted shelves lined the walls, and broken crates littered the corners, but the thick stone promised silence from the world above. For Zahira and her children, it might as well have been a palace. They collapsed onto a blanket Amal spread out, their trembling bodies finally able to rest without fear of sudden attack.
Zahira reached for her brother's hand. "Soufiane… if you hadn't come…" Her voice cracked, and her eyes filled with tears she had fought to hold back. "I thought I would die in that place. I thought my children would…" She broke off, clutching them to her chest.
Soufiane's jaw tightened. He wanted to tell her she was safe now, that nothing would ever happen to them again. But he knew better. Safety was an illusion that lasted only as long as he could fight for it. And he could not fight on two fronts—Germany and the Netherlands—forever.
Meriem busied herself checking weapons, her hands moving briskly, though her eyes flicked toward Soufiane with worry. "We'll need to rest here a few days. Let the children regain their strength. But we can't linger too long. Ayoub may not be far behind."
At the mention of that name, the cellar seemed colder. Ayoub Essouibrat was out there, wounded but alive. Soufiane could almost feel his enemy's presence stalking through the woods, planning, waiting. Their war was far from over.
Abderrazak crouched near the entrance, testing the sturdiness of the hatch. "We'll fortify the path, set lookouts. If Ayoub comes near, we'll know. This place is hidden well enough. For now, they'll be safe." His eyes met Soufiane's with deliberate weight. "You've done your part. Your family is alive."
The words, meant as reassurance, struck deep. Soufiane gave a small nod but said nothing. Alive, yes. But what of his son? Younes's name pulsed in his thoughts like a heartbeat. Every smile Zahira's children gave him, every time they clung to his arm, reminded him of the boy who was still out there—alone, vulnerable, waiting.
Amal seemed to sense his silence. She stepped closer, her voice low. "Don't vanish into your thoughts, Soufiane. You've carried us this far. Don't think you have to do everything alone."
He forced a faint smile, but his eyes betrayed him. He was already picturing the roads north, the rivers and fields he would cross, the dangers that waited between here and the Netherlands. He knew Amal was right—leaving the group would be madness. Yet the thought of Younes somewhere beyond his reach was unbearable.
Zahira's hand found his again, tighter this time. "Stay," she whispered. "Just a little while. Please."
Soufiane did not answer immediately. He looked around the cellar—at Abderrazak's steady vigilance, at Meriem's quiet strength, at Amal's watchful eyes, and at Zahira, clutching her children as if they were the last light left in the world. He wanted to stay, to protect them, to breathe without guilt. But even here, in the safest place they had found, his heart was already moving on.
Above them, the night deepened. The forest lay still, but Soufiane's gaze lingered on the small cracks in the ceiling, where faint starlight seeped through. His mind was not on Germany anymore. It was on the horizon, where another country waited, where another fight loomed.
Tomorrow he would rest. But soon—very soon—he would leave.
And when he did, nothing would stop him until he found his son.