The first light of dawn revealed a narrow inlet tucked between jagged cliffs. Soufiane's group moved carefully, every footstep deliberate, the weight of exhaustion tempered by the urgency of their goal. The distant horizon promised escape, yet the path was anything but simple. Waves pounded the rocks below, relentless and unyielding, as if the sea itself tested their resolve.
Soufiane led, his eyes scanning the inlet. "There," he whispered, pointing to a small cluster of derelict fishing boats, half-submerged and long abandoned. "If we can make one seaworthy, it will take us across."
Mouna bent to inspect a boat, running her hands over the warped wood. "Some of these could hold, but we'll need supplies—ropes, planks, anything to reinforce them."
Amal and Myriam moved quickly, collecting anything usable from the beach and broken shacks nearby. Julien and Mourad scouted the cliffs above for signs of others, their rifles at the ready. Zahira kept the children close, murmuring soft reassurances, while Cynthia guided Younes to a safer spot atop a low dune.
The group worked in tense silence, the wind carrying the distant cries of gulls and the occasional splash of waves against rocks. The smell of salt and decaying seaweed mixed with smoke from a small, hidden fire they had made to ward off scavengers.
Hours passed. They patched, tied, and reinforced the boats. Sweat and sand coated their faces, muscles aching from labor, but progress was evident. Finally, Soufiane signaled them to pause. "It's enough for now. We rest and move under cover of night. Visibility will hide our preparations."
The sun dipped behind the cliffs, turning the sea a dark, shimmering gray. Shadows lengthened, merging with the rocky outcrops. Suddenly, a faint movement caught Julien's eye—a figure on the ridge above, watching. He whispered urgently, alerting the group.
Soufiane's gaze hardened. "Not alone," he said quietly. "Stay calm. Don't panic."
The stranger emerged from the shadows, a lean survivor carrying a crossbow. She hesitated, eyes darting between the group and the boats. "You… you're preparing to leave?" she asked cautiously.
Soufiane stepped forward, hands raised slightly. "Yes. We mean no harm if you don't," he replied, tone steady. "We just want to get home."
The woman studied them for a long moment, then nodded. "Name's Lise. I know this coast. There are patrols—looters and others. You'll need my guidance if you want to leave safely."
Cynthia exchanged a glance with Soufiane, her eyes silently conveying a mix of relief and concern. Trust was a fragile thing in a world like this, yet the promise of help could not be ignored.
As darkness fell, Lise guided them to a hidden path behind the cliffs, one that offered a clear view of the harbor and shielded them from prying eyes. Every sound seemed amplified—the wind whipping through cracks in the rocks, the sea thrashing against the shore, and the subtle shuffle of sand under feet.
By the time they reached the boats, night had settled fully, and the harbor seemed eerily quiet. The group climbed aboard, readying themselves for the crossing. Soufiane took a deep breath, feeling the tension in every muscle. This was the moment they had worked toward, the chance to leave Europe and reclaim a fragment of hope.
As the first oars hit the water, a shadow moved along the cliffs above—another group, likely scavengers, who had spotted their preparations. A warning cry rang out, and the sea, once serene, became the stage for a sudden confrontation.
Soufiane gritted his teeth. "Hold steady! Move quickly! This is our chance!"
The small flotilla pushed off, waves crashing against the sides of the patched boats, their makeshift sails catching the night wind. Behind them, the shadows on the cliffs surged forward, but the group was determined, moving toward the horizon, toward home, and toward the uncertain safety of Morocco.
Even in the chaos, in the roar of the waves and the crackle of tension, there was a flicker of hope. The edge of survival and the edge of the world were intertwined, and Soufiane knew that every stroke of the oar carried them closer to what they had fought for—for family, for life, for the chance to start again.