The world had quieted again.
Amal sat in the control cabin, a faded wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The ferry's instruments glowed dimly in the dark — dials flickering, the radar pulsing with a slow green rhythm. Every so often, a wave slapped against the hull, and the ship moaned like something alive.
She preferred it this way — silence, mechanical hum, solitude.
It was easier to think without the others nearby. Out there, Soufiane carried the weight of decisions; down below, Zahira soothed her children with whispered stories. Cynthia lingered by the railings like a ghost. But Amal — she found her place here, surrounded by machines, where everything still had logic.
At least, it used to.
Her eyes flicked to the radar screen again. Empty.
Then — just for a moment — a blip.
Faint. Then gone.
She frowned, tapping the edge of the monitor. It could have been debris, a wave, a glitch. Or not.
"Probably nothing," she muttered. Her voice sounded small in the steel chamber.
Amal leaned back in the worn captain's chair, staring through the cracked glass of the bridge. The sea was endless and black, the horizon invisible. Somewhere ahead lay Morocco — the home she hadn't seen in over three years. A home she wasn't sure still existed.
Her hands tightened on the edge of the console.
The infection had taken her sister first. Myriam. Sweet, nervous Myriam who used to sing when they were kids, her voice trembling but beautiful. Amal could still remember the last time she saw her — in that camp outside Brussels, coughing, her skin pale, her eyes pleading for water.
When it happened, Amal hadn't cried. Not once. She had held her, whispered a prayer, then pulled the trigger.
The sound of it never left her.
"Everything okay?"
Soufiane's voice came from behind her. She hadn't heard him come in.
Amal straightened, brushing the fatigue from her face. "Fine. Just checking the readings."
He stepped closer, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "You've been up for hours. Get some rest."
"Later," she said quietly. "Someone needs to watch the current."
He nodded, but didn't move. His eyes went to the radar. "What's that?"
Amal glanced at the screen — and froze.
The blip was back.
Closer now.
"It's been appearing and disappearing," she said. "Might be interference. But it's moving too steadily for drift."
Soufiane leaned in. "Could be another ship."
"Or a signal reflection," she offered. But her voice lacked conviction.
They watched in silence as the dot hovered, then faded again.
Soufiane finally exhaled. "We'll keep the lights dimmed. Just in case."
Amal nodded. She knew what he wasn't saying. If it was another group — scavengers, pirates, worse — they were too exposed out here.
When he left, she remained staring at the empty screen. Her mind drifted.
She thought about Tangier — her hometown. The white streets where she and Myriam used to chase each other through the market, the smell of sea salt and oranges. She wondered what it looked like now. Were the mosques silent? The alleys overrun by vines and rot? Did the sea there still shimmer the same way at dawn?
Her throat tightened.
Home had become an idea, not a place. Something they carried inside them because the world outside had forgotten what it meant.
She pulled out a small notebook from her jacket — one she had carried since Belgium. Inside were lists: coordinates, formulas, scraps of plans. But on the last page, there was something else — a message she'd written months ago, when they had almost lost hope in Germany.
> If we ever reach the ocean, it means we still belong somewhere.
Amal touched the ink with her fingertip. It had smudged long ago, but the words still held.
The radar beeped again.
Louder this time. Persistent.
She looked up. The blip had returned — unmistakable now — and another one beside it. Two signals. Approaching.
Her pulse quickened. She adjusted the frequency, switching channels. A burst of static filled the room. She twisted the dial slowly, trying to find the source. And then — faint, buried under noise — came a voice.
A man's voice.
"…—help… coordinates—south… vessel… repeat—"
Then it cut out.
Amal froze. Her hands trembled over the console. She tried again, adjusting the range, the gain — nothing but empty static.
She grabbed the radio. "Soufiane. Get to the bridge. Now."
It took seconds before his footsteps thundered up the metal stairs. "What is it?"
She pointed at the radar. "Two vessels. Close. One of them sent a transmission. Someone's out there."
Cynthia appeared at the doorway too, eyes wide. "Are they survivors?"
Amal didn't answer. "Could be. Could also be a trap."
Soufiane's face hardened. "We hold course. Lights off. If they follow, we'll know their intentions."
He turned to leave, but Amal caught his sleeve. "Soufiane, the voice—it sounded desperate. Like us."
He hesitated, then shook his head. "And desperation gets people killed. We can't risk it until daylight."
Amal watched him go, the weight of his words pressing down like a physical thing. She wanted to argue, but she couldn't. She knew he was right.
Still, as the ship rocked and the wind howled outside, Amal stayed glued to the radar, watching the two blips drift — one fading, the other holding steady, like a heartbeat in the dark.
Hours passed.
At some point, she realized the first signal had vanished completely. The second one, too.
Only the black sea remained.
Amal exhaled, leaning back in the chair, exhaustion sweeping over her. The ferry's engines hummed softly beneath her — a heartbeat of metal and rust.
She closed her eyes, whispering to herself: "We're almost home."
But somewhere deep in the static, a faint, distorted whisper lingered — words that didn't belong to her, or to anyone alive.
> Don't come south.