The early morning fog hung thick over the German countryside, curling around trees and low stone walls like ghostly fingers. Soufiane moved silently through the underbrush, each step calculated, each breath controlled. The group's refuge, led by Zahira, had been left behind hours ago, hidden deep in the forest, its silhouette swallowed by mist.
For Soufiane, every mile was a reminder of what he had left behind—Zahira safe, the refugees settled, yet vulnerable to Ayoub's persistent shadow. His focus was unshakable. Somewhere across the border in the Netherlands, his child waited. Alive, he hoped, though he had no certainty. The memory of every lost day pressed on him like a weight, urging him forward.
The landscape shifted gradually as he crossed into the rolling hills near the border. Small villages, abandoned cars, and makeshift barricades dotted the route, remnants of a world that had fractured long before. Soufiane had learned to read them as signals: who had passed this way, what kind of resistance existed, and where danger lurked. Each mark was a clue, each trace a whisper guiding him closer to his goal.
He paused at the crest of a hill, surveying the valley below. The Netherlands was not far now, but the crossing would not be without risk. Patrolling groups, remnants of Ayoub's network, and unmarked checkpoints could appear at any moment. Soufiane's hand rested on the hilt of his knife, his senses stretched taut.
At dusk, he found a narrow path that cut through a dense copse of trees, allowing him to avoid the main roads. Here, the air smelled of damp earth and broken leaves. Every sound—rustling branches, distant barking, the scrape of metal against stone—made him freeze, assess, and move again. He had learned to trust his instincts, sharpened over years of survival and countless close calls.
As night fell, he took shelter in a small, abandoned barn, its roof partially caved in but offering enough cover to remain unseen. He checked the small bag at his side: a few rations, water, and a faded photograph of his son. The sight of it made his chest tighten, but also ignited a resolve that no fear could quench.
Sleep was a luxury he could not afford. Instead, he spent the night planning, mapping routes, and analyzing every piece of information he had gathered from whispers in neighboring villages and coded messages intercepted along the way. Each insight brought him closer to a single truth: the child was not just a mission; he was a reason.
Hours passed in silence. At dawn, Soufiane emerged from the barn and moved with the sun at his back, using the low light to mask his approach. The villages he passed were quiet, the streets abandoned. Broken signs and overturned carts marked the chaos of lives disrupted. He noted every shadow, every movement, careful not to draw attention.
By midday, he had reached the outskirts of a small Dutch town near the border. The architecture was foreign yet familiar—a mixture of brick facades, narrow streets, and canal waterways. Here, he would begin to search for clues about his son's location. The town seemed deserted, but Soufiane knew better. Danger was always nearby; he could feel it in the air, the subtle vibrations underfoot, the weight of unseen eyes.
He crouched behind a low wall, scanning the streets. A single figure moved in the distance, carrying a package. The person glanced over their shoulder, suspicious, and Soufiane noted the direction they went. Every step, every observation, was a piece of the puzzle, and patience was his ally.
Hours turned into the late afternoon. Soufiane moved carefully, mapping potential routes to the places he had identified as possible hideouts. Every turn brought him closer, yet the risk of discovery grew. He reminded himself of the stakes: one mistake, one misstep, and everything—the safety of Zahira's group, the life of his son—could unravel.
As the sun began to dip behind the horizon, casting long shadows across the town, Soufiane paused to assess. Ahead lay the canal, a small cluster of houses, and the faint smell of wood smoke. Somewhere in this maze, his son waited. Somewhere in this unknown territory, the next phase of his mission would begin.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. Each step forward was dangerous, each decision critical, but Soufiane had never been one to turn back. The journey across borders, through unknown lands and hostile eyes, was only the beginning.
And in the quiet, a single thought anchored him: I will find him. No matter what.