The night was quiet, the distant fires of Casablanca flickering like dying stars. Soufiane and Amal sat close together against a crumbling wall near the port. The city's roar had faded for now, leaving only the whisper of waves against the rocks.
Amal's eyes were fixed on the horizon, but her hands fidgeted in her lap. Soufiane noticed her unease. "You've been quiet since we got here," he said softly. "Something's bothering you."
She took a deep breath, her voice barely above a whisper. "I… I need to go to Berrechid."
Soufiane's brow furrowed. "Berrechid? That's far, and dangerous… the city is burned, streets crawling with infected. Why?"
Amal looked down, her fingers clenching. "It's my family. I need to see if… if anyone survived. Especially my sister, Meriem. The rest…" She swallowed hard, eyes glistening. "They didn't make it."
Soufiane's heart tightened. He had never seen her like this—vulnerable, afraid, yet determined. "I… I understand," he said quietly. "We'll need a plan, careful movement, and maybe allies. But I'll go with you if it's important."
Amal's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Thank you… I can't do this alone. And I trust you."
For the first time in days, a sense of purpose formed between them. This wasn't just survival anymore—it was about family, about hope, about holding onto the pieces of the world that still mattered.