The safehouse was not much more than a hollowed-out warehouse at the edge of the ruined German town, its roof patched with corrugated metal and its walls scarred by years of abandonment. Yet for Zahira and the others, it felt like a sanctuary. The faint hum of wind through broken windows was less threatening than the roar of gunfire or the screams of scavengers. Here, at least for a moment, they could breathe.
Soufiane had insisted they rest before deciding their next move. He had placed Amal and Abderrazak on rotating watch near the doors while Meriem patched wounds and rationed supplies. But his eyes often wandered back to Zahira, sitting with her back against a crate, her face pale from exhaustion, her daughter pressed tightly against her chest.
The child barely spoke, her wide eyes darting at every sound. She clung to Zahira's arm as if letting go would mean being swept away forever. Zahira stroked her hair gently, murmuring words of comfort that Soufiane could not hear but could imagine. They were the same words their mother once used when storms rattled their windows back in Morocco.
"Is this what safety feels like?" Zahira whispered when Soufiane finally sat beside her. Her voice was calm, but beneath it, he could hear the tremor of fear. "Walls that don't crumble, a roof that doesn't burn, and yet… it feels like a cage."
Soufiane looked around the dimly lit space, listening to the muffled sound of rain dripping through cracks. "Safety isn't walls," he said quietly. "It's time. Time to breathe. Time to think. Time to decide what comes next."
She turned her eyes toward him, so much like their father's, dark and unyielding. "And what comes next? You've found me. You've carried me out of hell. But I see it in your eyes, Soufiane. You're already somewhere else."
Her words struck sharper than any blade. He wanted to deny it, to promise her he would stay, but the image of another set of eyes—smaller, younger, belonging to his son—rose before him. The boy was out there, somewhere in the Netherlands, and no matter how much comfort he found in Zahira's presence, that truth gnawed at him.
"I won't leave you unprotected," Soufiane said at last, his tone firm. "You'll stay here with Amal, with Abderrazak, with Meriem. This place is hidden, far from Ayoub's patrols. You'll have food, weapons, and people who won't let harm come to you."
"And you?" Zahira asked, her fingers tightening around her daughter's shoulder. "Where will you go?"
Soufiane's jaw clenched. He didn't answer immediately. The firelight from a small lantern flickered across his face, carving deep shadows. Finally, he exhaled. "North. To Holland. To find him."
Her lips parted as if to protest, but the words faltered. She had seen that look before—the same relentless determination that had carried him through war, hunger, and countless close calls. She knew there was no stopping him.
Still, she leaned closer, lowering her voice so only he could hear. "Then promise me something, brother. Don't let the world take from him what it took from us. Don't let him forget who he is."
Soufiane placed his hand over hers, rough and calloused. "I swear it."
The hours passed slowly in the refuge. The group moved quietly, setting snares near the outer walls, checking supplies, reinforcing barricades. Mourad took shifts at the windows, though his body still bore bruises from Ayoub's chains. Amal redrew maps on scraps of cardboard, tracing paths north and marking dangerous routes. Abderrazak sharpened his crowbar until it gleamed, muttering curses at the thought of Ayoub still alive.
And Zahira… she sang softly to her daughter, a lullaby Soufiane recognized from their childhood. The melody wove through the shadows of the refuge, fragile yet stubborn, a reminder that even in the ruins of the world, something human endured.
That night, as the others slept in uneasy silence, Soufiane remained awake by the door. His knife rested across his knees, his thoughts torn between the sister he had saved and the son he had yet to reach. The path ahead was dangerous, perhaps impossible—but hesitation had never been his way.
When dawn broke, the light revealed faces still weary but alive. Zahira met his gaze across the room, her eyes saying what her lips did not: Go. But come back.
And Soufiane knew the time was coming when he would walk out of the refuge alone, chasing the next piece of his fractured family, carrying their survival on the edge of a knife.