The safehouse was silent, empty of life but full of whispers from the past. Sofiane set Younes on a cot, letting him rest while the boy's small chest rose and fell steadily. Cynthia closed the door behind them, checking the locks.
Mouna and Julien moved to the windows, scanning the streets for movement. "Nothing obvious," Julien said. "But signs are subtle—broken twigs, displaced stones. Someone's been through here recently."
Sofiane nodded, crouching over a rough map spread across a wooden table. "We're not far from Rotterdam. But whoever tracked us across the border, they know the waterways, the roads, the abandoned routes. We need to assume every step is being watched."
Cynthia brought him a cup of water, the steam curling into the dim room. "We could use signals," she suggested softly. "Not lights, not sounds. Simple marks on doorposts, stones moved in patterns. We alert allies without giving ourselves away."
Sofiane considered it. The world had changed. Survival wasn't just about speed or strength—it was about communication, subtlety, reading every gesture, every shadow. "Good. We set the signals. And we need more information about whoever is tailing us. Their patterns, routines, weaknesses. We can't afford a misstep."
Mouna pointed toward a boarded window. "Look—someone left a note here. Small, folded, easy to miss." She picked it up carefully and handed it to Sofiane.
The paper was thin, almost translucent. Written in a careful hand were a few words: "They are closer than you think. Trust no one on the roads."
Sofiane's eyes narrowed. "They know someone is helping us. Either they've been following the network, or they've infiltrated it. We can't tell which."
Julien tapped the map. "We move along the back roads, canals when possible. Avoid main streets. Keep Younes hidden."
Cynthia stepped closer. "I'll mark the signals along the way. Anyone watching won't know we're communicating with allies. It buys us time."
Sofiane placed a hand on her shoulder, a brief touch full of unspoken understanding. "We'll need that time," he said. "Every moment matters. Every choice can save him… or put him in danger."
Outside, the wind carried faint noises of life—distant engines, footsteps, perhaps even dogs. Sofiane's pulse quickened. The first human threat was close, but the group had grown stronger in the last days: Julien's careful eyes, Mouna's sharp instincts, Cynthia's courage.
They spent hours preparing—marking signals along the canal bank, reviewing escape routes, and memorizing the surrounding buildings. Sofiane paced quietly, always alert. Each step forward felt heavy with responsibility, yet he felt a spark of hope.
By nightfall, the signals were in place, small marks of survival and communication visible only to those who knew their meaning. Sofiane, Cynthia, Mouna, and Julien stood on the bank, Younes sleeping safely in a makeshift hammock.
Sofiane looked at the water, dark and reflective. The hidden signals weren't just signs for allies—they were warnings to enemies: they were watching, moving, and ready. The journey through the Netherlands was far from over, but the first careful threads of safety had been laid.
He allowed himself a brief moment of trust. For now, it was enough to keep moving, enough to keep searching, enough to keep hope alive.