The scent of salt reached them before they ever saw the sea.
For three days, they had followed the ghost of the old railway line — weaving through empty villages, broken bridges, and fields swallowed by weeds. The closer they came to the coast, the heavier the air grew, thick with the taste of rust and saltwater.
Soufiane walked at the front as usual, his rifle slung low and his eyes fixed ahead. Behind him, Cynthia carried Younes, who had grown quieter lately, staring at the horizon as if he could already see the water he'd once known as a baby. Amal, Zahira, Murad, and the rest of the group followed in a slow, careful line.
The morning fog lifted to reveal the ruins of a fishing town sprawled along the shore. Boats lay overturned on the sand like carcasses, their wooden ribs jutting through the gray tide. The sound of waves filled the silence — steady, endless, almost peaceful.
Amal shaded her eyes. "Looks empty."
Murad grunted. "They always do. Until they're not."
Soufiane scanned the horizon with his binoculars. Nothing moved but gulls and smoke far to the east. He lowered the glass. "We'll check the docks for supplies. Stay tight."
They descended the hill slowly, boots crunching on gravel and seaweed. The streets below were half-flooded — storefronts collapsed, windows shattered. A rusted sign still hung over a building: Boulangerie du Port.
Inside, the air smelled of mold and old flour. Amal kicked over a few empty cans. "Nothing left."
Zahira crouched beside a shelf, brushing away dust. "Someone's been here. Recently."
Soufiane turned sharply. "How do you know?"
She pointed to the floor — fresh footprints, half-covered by sand but unmistakably human.
Cynthia tensed, instinctively pulling Younes closer. "Could they be friendly?"
Murad raised his rifle. "If they were, they'd have left a note, not tracks."
Soufiane motioned for silence. "We move carefully. No shouting, no splitting up."
They crossed the narrow streets, following the trail toward the harbor. The smell of decay thickened. Half-sunken boats drifted aimlessly in the murky water, their ropes creaking with the tide.
Amal found a crate near a pier, filled with old fishing gear and a few sealed bottles of water. "Better than nothing," she said, tossing one to Soufiane.
He caught it, but his gaze was fixed on something else — a small campfire, long dead, near the end of the dock. The ashes were still warm.
"Someone was here this morning," he murmured.
Murad crouched, feeling the ashes. "You think they're still around?"
Before Soufiane could answer, a metallic clang echoed from the warehouse across the port. Everyone froze.
Amal raised her rifle. "Inside?"
Soufiane nodded slowly. "Take cover."
They spread out, hiding behind rusted barrels and wrecked vehicles. Soufiane crept closer to the warehouse door, peering through a broken gap in the metal. Inside, a faint light flickered.
He signaled Amal to follow and pushed the door open. It groaned loudly.
The smell hit first — salt, oil, and something faintly burnt. Crates were stacked everywhere, marked with faded marine symbols. On the floor, a small radio blinked weakly, powered by a jury-rigged battery.
A shadow moved near the far wall. Soufiane swung his rifle up. "Don't move!"
The figure froze. Then slowly, hands rose into view — a woman, gaunt but alert, maybe in her thirties. Her eyes darted between them, wild but not empty.
"Please," she said in broken French. "Don't shoot."
Amal stepped forward carefully. "Who are you?"
The woman swallowed hard. "Name's Elise. I… I thought you were one of them."
Murad entered with the others, rifle still ready. "One of who?"
Elise's gaze shifted toward the coastline. "The men from the hills. They come every few days. Take food, fuel… people, if they find them."
Soufiane frowned. "How many?"
"Six, maybe seven. Armed. They keep a base inland, near the old radio tower."
Zahira exchanged a glance with Amal. "And you've been hiding here alone?"
Elise nodded, trembling. "My brother went for help weeks ago. Never came back."
For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the dull crash of waves against the pier.
Cynthia finally whispered, "We can't stay here."
Soufiane nodded. "She's right. If those men are still around, they'll come back."
Murad kicked a crate. "So what's the plan? Run again?"
Soufiane looked toward the horizon, where the sea shimmered under a thin sheet of sunlight. "No. We find a boat. We fix it. And we leave this continent behind."
Elise stepped forward. "If you're heading south… I know where there's a ship. Not big, but strong. My father's. It's grounded on the other side of the cape."
Soufiane turned to her. "Can you take us there?"
She hesitated — then nodded. "But we'll have to move at night. They patrol the coast during the day."
Amal shouldered her rifle. "Then we rest now and move when the sun's down."
The group settled inside the warehouse, barricading the doors with crates. The light outside faded slowly, turning gold, then gray, then black.
As they prepared to sleep, Soufiane stood by the window, staring out at the sea. For the first time since the outbreak began, he could actually hear it — the rhythm of the waves, patient and endless.
Amal approached quietly. "You think it's really possible?"
He didn't look away. "What?"
"To go home."
Soufiane exhaled softly. "If there's still a Morocco to go back to, we'll find it."
She smiled faintly. "And if not?"
He finally turned to her. "Then we'll build one."
Outside, the ocean kept breathing, and in the distance, faint headlights flickered on the cliffs — silent watchers in the dark.