The night air was damp and heavy with salt, pressing down like a cold hand on their shoulders.
The group moved along the coastline in silence, guided only by the flickering beam of Elise's small lantern, wrapped in cloth to keep its light dim. Each step crunched on wet pebbles and seaweed, the tide whispering beside them like a living thing.
Soufiane walked close to the front, his senses tuned to every sound—the clatter of loose stones, the cry of distant gulls, the uneven rhythm of footsteps behind him. He knew what fear sounded like, and he could hear it in every breath.
Cynthia held Younes tightly against her back, his small hands gripping her shoulders. The boy hadn't spoken since they left the warehouse. Zahira followed with her children, her face pale but determined. Amal and Murad flanked the group, rifles ready, watching the dunes for movement.
Elise led them through a narrow path between the cliffs. "We're close," she whispered. "The cape's on the other side. You'll see the wreck once we reach the ridge."
Soufiane nodded. "How far?"
"An hour, maybe less—if we stay quiet."
They continued, passing the remains of a lighthouse that leaned like a dying tree, its glass shattered and staircase twisted by years of storms. The smell of rotting kelp filled the air. Somewhere inland, a dog barked, followed by a distant gunshot.
The group froze.
Murad raised his rifle. "They're hunting."
Elise's voice trembled. "The men I told you about. They move in pairs."
Soufiane gestured sharply. "No talking. Move."
They ducked low, slipping into the tall grass that lined the dunes. The moon slid behind a cloud, turning the world into shifting shades of gray. Every sound seemed amplified—the rustle of the grass, the creak of Amal's backpack straps, the thud of Soufiane's heartbeat.
A few meters ahead, Elise stopped and crouched. She pointed toward the ridge. Faint orange light flickered there—torches.
Soufiane crawled beside her. Through the dune grass, he saw three silhouettes standing on the ridge, rifles slung across their backs. Their voices carried in the wind—low, guttural, half-drunk laughter.
"Patrol," Elise whispered.
Amal glanced at Soufiane. "We can't go around them without making noise."
Murad's jaw tightened. "Then we wait for them to move."
But the men didn't move. They stayed there, drinking, smoking, watching the sea as if it belonged to them.
Minutes stretched into an hour. Younes shifted restlessly, and Cynthia held him tighter, murmuring against his ear. Amal's legs trembled from crouching too long.
Finally, Soufiane made a decision. "We'll circle through the old quarry," he whispered. "It'll take longer, but the cliffs will block their view."
Elise nodded reluctantly. "It's dangerous terrain. Steep, slippery—"
"I'll take the front," Soufiane said. "You stay with Cynthia and the kids."
The detour was brutal. The quarry was half-collapsed, littered with rusted machines and broken stones. Every step echoed faintly off the rock walls. Soufiane moved first, testing the ground with his boot before signaling the others forward.
Halfway across, a piece of metal clanged under Murad's foot.
Everyone froze.
Then, from above, came a shout.
"Hey! Who's down there?"
Soufiane hissed, "Run!"
Bullets cracked through the night, sparking against the rocks. The group scattered, ducking behind boulders as the patrol opened fire from the ridge. Cynthia shielded Younes with her body, crawling into a crevice with Zahira and the kids. Amal returned fire, short controlled bursts that echoed through the quarry.
Soufiane climbed up a ledge, firing back toward the lights. One man fell, tumbling down the slope with a dull thud.
Elise screamed, "They're calling for backup!"
Soufiane turned. In the distance, headlights flickered—more vehicles coming along the cliffs.
"Move!" he shouted. "To the shore!"
They ran, slipping down the other side of the quarry toward the open beach. The sand sucked at their boots, the wind whipping hard now, carrying the sound of engines closer and closer.
Elise pointed ahead. "There! Past the rocks!"
Through the mist, the shape of a small cargo ship appeared—its hull tilted but mostly intact, wedged in the sand like a stranded beast. Rust streaked its sides, but the deck was solid, the cabin still standing.
Soufiane's heart pounded. "That's it?"
Elise nodded breathlessly. "The Marianne. My father's ship."
Murad covered their rear as the group sprinted the last stretch. Bullets whistled past, striking the sand near their feet. Amal stopped to return fire, her muzzle flash lighting her determined face.
Soufiane reached the ship first, helping Cynthia lift Younes aboard through a broken ladder. Then Zahira and the kids, then Amal. Murad climbed last, firing one final shot before ducking behind the hull.
Elise scrambled up after them and pulled a heavy tarp over the opening. The sounds of gunfire grew distant—the patrols must have lost sight of them in the mist.
Everyone collapsed on the deck, panting, hearts pounding. For a moment, no one spoke.
Finally, Amal laughed shakily. "You call that a boat?"
Elise smiled weakly. "She's old, but she floats. Or at least… she used to."
Soufiane stood slowly, scanning the dark horizon where the lights of the pursuers faded one by one. "If we can fix her," he said, "then she's our only way home."
Zahira looked up at the sky, where the clouds began to break, revealing a pale strip of stars. "Home," she repeated softly. "I almost forgot what that word felt like."
Soufiane placed his hand on the cold metal of the railing, feeling the weight of everything they'd lost—and the fragile, burning hope of what still might be found.
The wind shifted, bringing the deep, endless sound of waves against the hull. For the first time, it sounded less like mourning and more like a call.
Behind him, Amal whispered, "They'll come again, you know."
Soufiane nodded without turning. "Then we'll be ready."