The gray light of dawn seeped through the cracks in the cabin walls, pale and uncertain. The fire had burned down to embers, leaving the room bathed in a cold, fragile glow. Meriem slept lightly against the wall, Amal still curled beside her, eyes fluttering beneath closed lids. Abderrazak remained near the door, crowbar in hand, shoulders rigid, watching the forest with the same intensity he had kept all night.
Soufiane stood near the window, machete at his side, scanning the thin line of trees for movement. Every shadow seemed to twitch, every rustle in the brush a whisper of impending danger. His muscles ached from the night's vigilance, but exhaustion was a luxury he couldn't afford.
And then it came—a sound that froze him more efficiently than fear or fatigue ever could: a deliberate, slow knock on the cabin door.
Not the faint tap of branches against wood. Not the random creak of the old structure. A knock. Three slow, deliberate raps, each one resonating through the cabin like a pulse.
Soufiane's heart thudded painfully in his chest. "That… that's not the wind," he whispered.
Abderrazak's eyes narrowed. "No. Someone's out there. And they're not lost."
Meriem stirred in her sleep. Soufiane bent down, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder. "Stay down. Don't make a sound."
The knocking came again—slightly louder this time, confident, purposeful. The forest seemed to hold its breath, waiting for a reaction.
Soufiane crept to the door, blade raised. His fingers found the old latch, testing it gently, ready to push it open. Amal appeared behind him, eyes wide, silent but tense.
"Soufiane…" she whispered. "Be careful."
He didn't answer. Slowly, he cracked the door open just enough to peer outside.
The clearing beyond the cabin was bathed in gray light. The mist clung to the grass, curling around the trunks of pines. And there, standing just beyond the treeline, a figure waited. Alone. Motionless. Hands at their sides. Face hidden beneath a hood, shadowed, unreadable.
The knocking had stopped. Silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Soufiane's voice was low, steady. "Identify yourself!"
The figure didn't move. No reply came. Just the faint sound of wind threading through the pines.
Abderrazak's crowbar scraped softly against the floor. "Could be a trap," he muttered. "Could be human… could be worse."
The figure shifted slightly, and in that motion, Soufiane caught a glint—a knife, maybe, or some other weapon. He realized the knock hadn't been polite. It had been a summons. A warning.
"Get back," Soufiane ordered, voice firm. Amal pulled Meriem close, crouching by the fire, eyes wide with alarm.
The figure took a step forward. The mist seemed to bend around them, and Soufiane felt a shiver run down his spine. Whoever—or whatever—stood there had waited until the light was just enough to be seen but not enough to reveal intent.
Abderrazak's smirk was gone. He shifted closer to the door, crowbar tight in his grip. "Looks like our quiet morning just ended."
Soufiane's grip on the machete tightened. He exchanged a glance with Abderrazak. Unspoken words passed between them: survive. Protect. Decide.
The hooded figure raised one gloved hand, not in peace, not in surrender, but in a slow, deliberate motion—as if counting down.
Soufiane swallowed hard. He realized that the cabin's fragile peace, the rest they had stolen from the world, was over.
And outside, in the gray light of dawn, the next choice waited.