At first light, they set out. The streets were a labyrinth of smoke, fire, and rubble. Soufiane carried the machete, Amal her pipe. Both moved silently, scanning every alley, every ruined doorway.
The journey to Berrechid was perilous. Fires licked the edges of the streets, and the occasional groan of the infected echoed from abandoned buildings. They avoided open streets, sticking to shadows, ducking through ruined homes when necessary.
"Do you think she's still alive?" Soufiane asked quietly, glancing at Amal.
"She has to be," Amal replied. "Meriem… she's strong. I have to believe that."
Hours passed, the cityscape slowly giving way to the outskirts. The familiar buildings of Berrechid appeared—fewer, scarred, and burned in places. Amal's steps quickened. Her eyes scanned the neighborhood frantically until they reached a partially destroyed house at the end of a quiet street.
"This is it," she whispered. Soufiane nodded, sensing the tension in her posture.
Inside, the house was devastated. Furniture overturned, walls scorched, remnants of life scattered like a story abruptly ended. Amal's eyes swept over the chaos until she spotted movement in a corner.
"Meriem?" she called softly.
A young woman, thin and disheveled, stepped into the light. Her eyes widened, and recognition sparked. "Amal?"
Tears filled Amal's eyes. She rushed forward, hugging her sister tightly. "I thought I lost you too," she whispered.
Meriem clung to her, shaking. "I thought… I thought everyone else was gone…"
Amal's lips pressed into a hard line. "They are. But we're alive, and that's what matters."
Soufiane watched quietly, feeling the weight of their reunion. This journey had taken a heavy toll on them all, but hope—fragile and fierce—still lingered.
As they left the ruined house, Amal holding her sister close, Soufiane realized something important: survival wasn't just about escaping the infected. It was about holding onto the people who mattered, even in the darkness.