The night air reeked of smoke and rain.
They didn't speak for hours after leaving the burning church behind. Only the crunch of boots on wet gravel broke the silence, echoing faintly through the fog.
Soufiane walked at the front, flashlight low, jaw tight. Behind him, Murad carried the rifle, scanning the empty fields to their left. The others followed close — Cynthia holding Younes against her chest, Amal and Zahira helping each other stay steady on the uneven road.
It was just before dawn when they finally stopped near an abandoned farmhouse. The sky had begun to pale, a sickly gray between night and morning.
Soufiane raised his hand. "Here. We'll rest a bit."
The house had no roof, only the frame of what once was a barn. They pushed open the rusted gate and entered, the ground damp with moss. Amal set down her pack and leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
Murad dropped beside her, rubbing his shoulder. "That church… I swear I can still hear the bells."
Soufiane glanced toward the horizon, where faint smoke still marked the town they'd escaped. "They'll stop. Eventually."
Zahira crouched near a half-broken window, watching the mist swirl beyond the field. "Do you really think so? Because I don't."
Everyone looked at her. She met Soufiane's eyes — tired, but defiant. "Every time we burn something, every time we run, it feels like the dead don't die. They just… change places."
No one answered. The words hung heavy in the still air.
Cynthia finally broke the silence. "What matters is we're alive. Younes is alive." She smiled faintly at the boy, though her eyes were red from smoke and exhaustion.
Soufiane nodded. "She's right. We move on. South. Always south."
He pulled a folded map from his bag — frayed, creased, and smudged from months of use. He laid it on the dusty floor, weighing it down with his knife.
"Our next step is here," he said, pointing to a small town near the coast. "Narbonne. It's close to the Mediterranean. If we can reach the port, maybe we'll find a boat that still floats."
Murad raised an eyebrow. "And fuel? Food? You think we'll just walk in and sail to Morocco?"
Soufiane gave a small, humorless smile. "You got a better idea?"
Murad grunted. "Not one that doesn't involve getting eaten."
Amal leaned closer, tracing the map with her finger. "If the main roads are blocked, we can use the old railway line. It should still run parallel to the coast."
Soufiane nodded. "Good. We follow that."
For a moment, there was a strange peace — the kind that comes right before you start to hope again. But then Zahira spoke quietly.
"Do you ever think about home?"
Everyone froze a little at the word.
Soufiane looked up from the map. "Home?"
Zahira's gaze drifted toward the fading sky. "Casablanca. The smell of the ocean, the noise, the colors. Do you think it's still there?"
Cynthia smiled faintly. "Maybe it's quieter now."
Murad chuckled dryly. "Quieter, sure. Probably full of ghosts, though."
Soufiane stayed silent for a long moment, then said, "If it's still standing, we'll see it again. But first we need to survive the road."
He folded the map and stood. "Rest for an hour. Then we move."
They ate what little food they had left — a can of beans, a few crackers, half a bottle of water. Younes fell asleep in Cynthia's lap, his small hand gripping hers even in his dreams.
Amal sat apart from the group, cleaning her rifle with slow, precise movements. Her face was calm, but her eyes drifted toward Soufiane often. There was something she wasn't saying — something that lingered just behind her quiet gaze.
When Soufiane finally sat beside her, she didn't look up.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded. "You remember when we first met, in the lab near Rabat?"
He smiled faintly. "You were the only one who didn't run when the alarms started."
She laughed softly. "That's because I was locked in a room full of infected samples. Running wasn't an option."
The laughter faded. Amal's eyes darkened. "Sometimes I wonder if we're still running from that same day. Just… in circles."
Soufiane looked away. "Maybe. But circles are better than graves."
She didn't reply. Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small silver bracelet — old, tarnished, the kind given to children. A name was engraved on it, barely visible.
Soufiane squinted. "Amina?"
Amal's jaw tightened. "My sister. She was twelve."
He said nothing, only nodded — a silent acknowledgment of loss. The fire crackled softly between them, casting red light on their faces.
When dawn finally broke, it was thin and colorless. The group packed their things in silence and stepped back onto the road. The fog began to lift, revealing the long stretch of highway ahead — cracked, broken, littered with overturned cars and the skeletons of trees.
As they walked, the sound of the ocean grew faintly in the distance. For the first time in days, Soufiane felt something stir in his chest. Not hope exactly — but direction.
Still, behind them, the faint echo of church bells rolled across the hills, carried by the wind.
Zahira stopped and looked back. "They're still ringing," she whispered.
Soufiane didn't turn. "Then let them. We've got our own road now."
The group moved on, silhouettes swallowed by the rising mist — southward, toward the sea.