Sofiane stepped cautiously across the muddy field, the dim light of dawn painting the horizon in pale streaks of orange and gray. Behind him, the dark line of the German border receded, and ahead, the flat expanse of the Netherlands stretched wide and desolate. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of wet earth and the faint tang of salt from distant canals. Each step echoed softly in the quiet, a reminder that in this world, silence was both a shield and a danger.
The villages he passed were eerily still. Roofs sagged under the weight of years of neglect, shutters hung crooked, and windows gaped like hollow eyes. Signs of former life clung stubbornly to broken doors, faded advertisements and rusted bicycles leaning against walls, relics of a time before the chaos. Sofiane's hand never strayed far from the knife at his belt, and every movement was calculated, careful.
He paused at a bend in a canal, crouching behind a broken wall of brick. Across the water, a small herd of infected stumbled between the reeds, their guttural sounds carrying faintly in the morning air. Sofiane observed them without moving. His sharp eyes noted their numbers, their patterns, the way they drifted aimlessly yet remained dangerous. After a long moment, he turned and continued, weaving through narrow streets and overgrown fields, keeping to shadows whenever possible.
Hours passed. Hunger and fatigue gnawed at him, but Sofiane pressed on. He knew Younes was somewhere in this country, vulnerable and alone. His mind replayed every detail he had of the boy, every clue he had gathered. Each memory was a thread, fragile but necessary, connecting him to the child he had yet to find. There could be no mistakes, no delays. One wrong turn could mean failure, or worse.
Late in the afternoon, Sofiane approached the edge of a small village. Smoke curled from chimneys, thin and tentative, a sign of life. He crouched behind a low wall, scanning the streets. Two figures emerged from a collapsed building: a man and a woman, armed but wary. Sofiane recognized the same fear in their eyes that he had felt countless times before—fear of the world, fear of strangers, fear of what survival demanded. He stepped from the shadows, hands raised in a gesture of non-threat.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he said softly, voice calm but firm. "I'm looking for someone… a child. Alone. You've seen others like me?"
The man hesitated, eyes narrowing. The woman's gaze shifted between Sofiane and the boy's photograph he had kept close. Slowly, recognition dawned. "Maybe," the woman said cautiously. "We know of a place. A safe spot for families, small groups… but it's not far from trouble."
Sofiane studied them carefully. He could sense their hesitation, the weight of their caution. Yet he also sensed the faint glimmer of trust, the understanding that survival sometimes demanded alliances, however brief. "I need help," he said. "Just enough to reach my goal. After that, I'll be gone."
The man exchanged a glance with the woman. "Then come. We move carefully. You don't want to draw attention."
As they led him through narrow alleys and half-collapsed bridges, Sofiane allowed himself a moment of thought. He wasn't alone now, not entirely. These two, whatever their pasts, were allies for the moment. Their presence increased his chances of finding Younes, of protecting the boy until he could be returned to safety. Every step brought him closer, not just geographically but to the hope he had clung to all these months.
Night fell, the gray of evening blending into the black of night. Sofiane found a small barn, abandoned but sturdy enough for shelter. He lit a fire in the hearth, smoke curling upward, careful to keep it minimal, hidden from prying eyes. Mouna and Julien—he had learned their names—tended quietly, moving with practiced caution. Sofiane's mind, however, never rested. He mapped the terrain, considered potential threats, anticipated patrols or wandering infected, and planned his next steps.
As the fire crackled softly, Sofiane allowed himself the smallest exhale. Tomorrow, he would continue. He would track the rumors, follow the signs, and inch closer to Younes. The road was long, and the dangers many, but he had crossed borders for this purpose, and he would not falter. Somewhere in the Netherlands, his son waited—and Sofiane would not stop until they were together.
The night stretched on, silent but for the distant cries of the restless, the whispering wind through broken trees, and the steady heartbeat of a father determined to reclaim what had been lost.