The mist did not lift as they left the village.
It followed them — thin as breath, pale as smoke — curling between the trees and clinging to their clothes. Even the sound of their boots was swallowed by the fog, leaving only silence and the faint echo of their breathing.
Soufiane walked ahead, holding the red scarf tight in his fist. Its damp fabric left streaks of blood on his palm. He hadn't spoken since the house. Cynthia kept glancing at him, her expression tight with worry, but said nothing.
Amal carried the compass in one hand and her pistol in the other. Every few minutes she checked the direction — though they all suspected the device had stopped working long ago. The needle trembled, spinning slightly, like it was afraid to choose a path.
Behind them, Mourad pushed the supply cart, muttering to himself in low Arabic prayers. Zahira's children clung to the side of the cart, silent and pale. Juliane walked rear guard, scanning the trees for movement.
And above them, the sky was the color of old bone.
Hours passed before the first sound broke through: a soft hum, deep and resonant, like the world itself was exhaling.
Younes stopped walking. His small hand clutched Cynthia's sleeve.
"Mama," he whispered. "They're still here."
Cynthia froze. "Who?"
"The people in the mist." He pointed to the tree line. "They're whispering your names."
No one laughed.
Amal raised her weapon and looked into the fog — nothing. Just trees and the fading shapes of the ruined road. But then, faintly, she heard it too. A voice, soft and layered, as though made of a thousand overlapping tones.
"Soufiane… Amal… Mourad…"
The sound crawled under their skin.
Mourad spat on the ground and tightened his grip on the cart. "We keep walking. We stop listening. You hear me?"
They obeyed. But the whispers didn't stop.
By afternoon, the forest began to thin. Ahead lay open countryside — rolling fields, scattered barns, a lonely windmill leaning in the distance. Relief should have washed over them, but it didn't.
The mist didn't end with the trees. It followed, like a living tide.
Cynthia adjusted Younes on her back and murmured, "We'll find a road soon. Maybe even a car."
But Amal wasn't listening anymore. She had stopped walking. Her gaze fixed on something in the field ahead.
"Do you see that?" she asked quietly.
Soufiane looked up.
There, halfway buried in the soil, stood a row of crosses — dozens of them, stretching across the plain like a broken army. Each cross had something tied to it: a piece of cloth, a photo, a bracelet, even shoes.
Juliane's voice was barely a whisper. "Mass graves. The last stand, maybe."
Amal stepped closer to one of the crosses. The cloth tied around it was faded pink — but beneath the dust, the embroidery was clear.
It read: A. O.
Her breath caught. "That's… that's my name."
She stumbled backward, eyes wide. "This is impossible."
Soufiane stared at her, then at the dozens of other markers. He moved from one to the next. Several bore initials matching members of their group — S.M., C.H., M.O.
"What the hell is this?" Mourad muttered. "It's like the world already buried us."
Younes stepped forward. His voice was small. "Maybe it's what happens after we die."
Cynthia's face went pale. "Don't say that."
But Soufiane couldn't look away. He knelt before one of the crosses, his own initials carved deep into the wood. He reached out — and as his fingers brushed it, the ground moved.
A crack split the dirt beneath the grave markers. Air hissed from the opening, cold and foul. Then came a sound — a heartbeat, steady and immense, as if the land itself were alive.
Amal screamed, "Move!"
They ran — through the mist, across the fields, until the sound faded behind them.
They collapsed hours later near an abandoned barn. The structure leaned dangerously, its roof half-collapsed, but it offered shelter. Juliane sealed the doors with planks.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and the smell of hay. The group lit a single lantern and sat in a circle.
Cynthia checked Younes for fever; he was pale but breathing. Mourad opened a can of beans and passed it around. Amal sat in the corner, silent, eyes fixed on her shaking hands.
Soufiane finally spoke.
"We can't pretend anymore. Whatever this thing is — it's not just a virus. It's rewriting reality. It's… showing us something."
Juliane frowned. "Showing or deciding?"
Amal looked up slowly. Her eyes were red. "It's making us remember what we've lost. And maybe, what we're going to lose."
Cynthia whispered, "You mean, we're already dead?"
No one answered.
The lantern flickered. For a moment, the barn walls shimmered — faint outlines of movement just beyond the light.
Soufiane turned toward the noise. "Who's there?"
From the shadows came a single whisper, soft and familiar — his sister's voice:
"Don't run from home again."
The light died.
When it came back a second later, the scarf in Soufiane's hand was gone.
In its place lay a handful of soil, wet and dark — as if freshly dug from a grave.
Outside, the mist thickened again, swirling against the barn walls like a restless tide.
And somewhere beyond the pines, the heartbeat of the earth began once more.