The sea stretched endlessly, a dark mirror that reflected both the stars above and the fear inside their hearts. Sofiane's hands were stiff from gripping the edge of the small boat, his eyes scanning the horizon for the faintest sign of land. Amal sat next to him, her lips trembling from the cold wind, but she forced herself to smile each time their eyes met. Meriem clutched her knees in silence, whispering small prayers that blended with the sound of the waves.
After days of uncertainty, the first line of coast finally appeared—a shadow breaking the monotony of the ocean. Sofiane's chest tightened, not from relief but from dread. Reaching land did not mean safety. It meant another battle was about to begin.
As they approached, the smell of burned wood and rot replaced the salt air. The beach was deserted, littered with abandoned clothes and broken luggage. Amal's voice broke the silence:
"Spain… We made it."
But Sofiane kept his expression cold. His instincts from Hay-Mohammadi, sharpened by years of surviving in a tough neighborhood, told him to trust nothing too quickly. He jumped into the shallow water first, pulling the boat ashore, his tattoo of Younes on his forearm catching the moonlight like a silent vow.
The group moved cautiously inland. Every sound—the crunch of shells under their feet, the distant howl carried by the wind—reminded them that Spain might already be infected. Sofiane scanned the ruined buildings ahead, his mind balancing between hope and the hard truth: survival meant sacrifices.
They camped in the shadow of an abandoned fishing hut, too exhausted to walk further. Sofiane stayed awake, holding a piece of metal like a knife, eyes fixed on the dark treeline. The shore had given them ground, but the real test lay beyond it.