Night settled over the small cove, a deceptive calm after the storm. The boat bobbed gently, the ocean whispering against its hull. Soufiane and Amal worked to secure their meager supplies, while Meriem shivered under a thin blanket. Despite exhaustion, Soufiane remained alert, scanning for any signs of danger.
From the darkness, a faint movement caught his eye. Shadows shifted along the distant cliffs. Soufiane's grip tightened on the machete. "Stay quiet," he murmured.
Amal squinted, her pulse quickening. "Could be survivors… or worse."
They watched, frozen, as the figures moved closer. Soufiane's mind raced. After Casablanca, after Berrechid, and surviving the storm, this was another threat—a reminder that the world beyond the city was still perilous. They couldn't relax, not even for a moment.
The shadows vanished as quickly as they appeared, leaving only uncertainty and tension in their wake. Soufiane exhaled slowly. "We keep moving at first light. No more stops, no risks. Every hour counts."
Meriem nodded silently, understanding the gravity of their situation. Amal placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "We're together. Nothing will break us."
Soufiane stared out at the black horizon, thinking of Younes, of Zahira, of the lives waiting for them beyond Europe. The waves had tested their strength, the storm had tested their endurance, and the shadows had tested their vigilance. Each obstacle reminded them that survival required more than luck—it required courage, trust, and relentless determination.
As the night deepened, the boat drifted gently, carrying three souls toward the unknown. Soufiane knew the path ahead would be treacherous, but for the first time in days, a fragile hope glimmered on the horizon: Europe was closer, Younes was out there, and they had survived together.