The sea at dawn looked almost peaceful.
Soft light spilled through the gray clouds, turning the waves into sheets of silver. Zahira stood by the railing, her coat pulled tight around her shoulders, watching the horizon as if she could will Morocco to appear from behind the mist.
Her son, Sami, clung to her leg, his small fingers cold. He was staring at the water too, his breath fogging in the air.
"Is that our home, Mama?" he asked.
"Not yet," Zahira said softly, forcing a smile. "But soon. Very soon."
She didn't tell him that she wasn't sure anymore where "home" was. That word had changed shape too many times since the world collapsed.
Behind them, the ferry's deck was waking up slowly. Amal was still in the control cabin, a faint light blinking through the glass. Soufiane stood near the bow, his hands resting on the railing, eyes lost somewhere far away. Cynthia sat cross-legged by the door with Younes asleep against her shoulder, her fingers tracing slow circles in his hair.
For a few fragile moments, Zahira almost believed this calm could last.
Then Amal appeared on deck, her face pale and drawn.
She walked straight to Soufiane. Zahira couldn't hear what they said, but she saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his hand closed into a fist. Cynthia rose immediately, alert.
Something was wrong.
Zahira waited until they stepped into the small mess room before following. Inside, the air was cold and smelled of oil and metal. Amal was standing by the table, a radio in her hands.
"I'm telling you," she said, her voice low but urgent, "it wasn't interference. I heard it clearly—someone out there called for help."
Soufiane's tone was calm, but his eyes betrayed concern. "And you said the signal vanished?"
Amal nodded. "Yes. Two vessels appeared on the radar, then disappeared before sunrise. But one of them… it was transmitting something strange."
Cynthia frowned. "Strange how?"
Amal hesitated. "At first, it was coordinates. Then static. And then a voice said…" She looked down, her fingers trembling slightly. "It said, 'Don't come south.'"
The words sank into the room like cold air.
Soufiane exchanged a glance with Zahira, then with Cynthia. "Could be a warning. Or bait."
Zahira spoke for the first time. "Or maybe both."
Amal's lips pressed together. "I don't know. But someone was out there last night. Close enough to track us. And now they're gone."
Soufiane rubbed his temple, thinking. "We keep course toward Marseille. We don't answer any signals until we reach the shore. Once we're there, we'll decide how to move."
"And if whoever sent that message is still following us?" Amal asked.
Soufiane's gaze hardened. "Then they'll regret it."
He left the room after that, the conversation unresolved, tension following him like a shadow. Cynthia lingered a moment longer, looking at Amal with a mix of worry and suspicion before she followed him out.
Zahira stayed behind, watching Amal pack the radio away. "You believe the voice, don't you?" she asked quietly.
Amal didn't look up. "I don't know what to believe anymore."
Zahira moved closer. "But you're afraid."
Amal's hands froze. For a second, her expression cracked — exhaustion, grief, and something unspoken behind her eyes. "The voice…" she whispered, "it sounded familiar. Just for a second. Like Myriam."
Zahira's breath caught. "Your sister?"
"She's gone," Amal said quickly, shaking her head. "I buried her myself. But for one heartbeat, I could have sworn—" She stopped, pressing her palms against the table as if grounding herself. "Maybe it's just my mind playing tricks."
Zahira didn't answer. She reached out, resting a gentle hand on Amal's shoulder. The contact seemed to steady her.
"Rest a bit," Zahira said. "You've been awake too long."
When Amal left, Zahira lingered in the empty room. The radio sat quietly in the corner, its green light blinking like an eye. She could still hear the echo of Amal's words in her head.
> Don't come south.
The words gnawed at her.
She walked toward the window and looked out. The horizon was empty, but the unease stayed.
Later that afternoon, the ferry cut through calmer waters. The group gathered on deck for a brief meal — dry crackers, canned beans, a few sips of water. Cynthia tried to lighten the mood by teaching the children an old Dutch song she half-remembered. Younes laughed, his voice bright against the wind. For a fleeting instant, even Amal smiled.
But when the sun began to sink, turning the sea red and gold, Zahira noticed something — a shape far off in the distance. Small. Low to the water. It glimmered just before the horizon swallowed it.
She squinted, heart pounding. A reflection? A vessel?
Before she could say anything, Soufiane joined her. "You saw it too?" he murmured.
She nodded.
"It's been following us since noon," he said. "I didn't tell the others."
Zahira looked at him sharply. "Why?"
"Because panic won't help," he said. "And we don't even know what it is yet. It might just be wreckage drifting south."
But his tone carried no conviction.
As night fell again, Zahira found herself unable to sleep. She lay beside her children, listening to the hum of the ship and the faint whistle of wind through the cracks in the cabin walls. Every few minutes, she thought she heard something beneath it — a low murmur, almost like a voice.
Finally, unable to bear it, she got up and crept toward the control room. Amal wasn't there. The radar screen flickered faintly. Zahira stepped closer — and froze.
The blip was back.
Closer than before.
And then, through the radio's static, came a faint whisper, soft and cold, the same voice Amal had described.
> "You shouldn't have come this way."
The signal cut. The screen went dark.
Zahira's reflection stared back at her in the glass — pale, terrified — and outside, somewhere beyond the fog, something moved against the water.