Zahira didn't move for several seconds.
The radio's light had gone dead, yet the sound still lingered in her ears — that soft, whispering voice that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
> "You shouldn't have come this way."
She stepped back slowly, her heart hammering in her chest. The silence that followed felt too deep, like the sea itself was listening.
Her first instinct was to run, but something kept her still — that strange, heavy instinct of a mother who knows danger before it shows its face. She turned toward the deck. Outside, the air was colder, the fog thicker than before.
She could hear the low hum of the engine, steady but strained, like the ferry itself was nervous.
"Soufiane?" she called quietly, stepping into the hallway. No answer.
Her voice echoed down the narrow metal corridor. She passed the sleeping quarters — Amal's door half-open, Cynthia's light flickering under the crack. Everyone was asleep or pretending to be. Zahira hesitated, torn between waking them and confirming she wasn't losing her mind.
Then she heard it again.
Not through the radio this time. Through the hull.
A faint, rhythmic clunk… like metal brushing against metal.
She ran to the deck. The fog swallowed the world — only the ship's lights cut small circles of visibility. The water below was pitch black. Zahira gripped the railing, leaning forward.
Something was there. A shadow, low and slow, moving alongside them.
"Soufiane!" she shouted.
Her voice snapped the silence. Moments later, Soufiane came running from below, followed by Amal and Cynthia. Amal's hair was loose, her eyes wide and exhausted. Cynthia held a flashlight, sweeping it across the mist.
"What happened?" Soufiane demanded.
Zahira pointed toward the side of the ferry. "There's something following us. And the radio—someone spoke again."
Soufiane froze, his expression unreadable. Amal stepped closer to the edge, peering through the fog. "I can't see—wait."
There. A small vessel emerged for a moment — dark, sleek, almost soundless — before fading back into the mist.
"That's not driftwood," Cynthia whispered.
Soufiane's hand went instinctively to the rifle slung across his shoulder. He motioned for silence. The group crouched low, listening.
Only the sound of the sea answered.
Then, faintly, over the hum of the engine, came another noise — not from the water this time, but from the air.
A soft crackle, followed by that same voice again.
Not whispering now. Clearer. Closer.
> "Turn back… before it's too late."
Amal's flashlight trembled. "It's the same voice," she whispered. "Exactly the same."
"Where is it broadcasting from?" Soufiane hissed.
Zahira swallowed hard. "It doesn't matter. It knows where we are."
Soufiane nodded slowly. "Get everyone below deck. Lock the lower cabins."
Amal started to protest, but he cut her off. "Now. Move."
They scattered. Cynthia went to wake the children; Amal grabbed the spare battery pack and followed. Zahira lingered, unable to look away from the mist.
Somewhere out there, that shadow was still gliding beside them.
When she finally went below, the tension had already thickened. The passengers — what few remained — were huddled in the mess room, frightened whispers rising like smoke. Cynthia tried to calm them, but her own voice trembled.
Soufiane appeared a moment later, rifle slung tight, eyes scanning every corner. "No lights from now on," he said. "We move quietly until sunrise."
He turned to Zahira. "Show me the radio."
She led him back to the control room. The device sat where she'd left it, silent and lifeless now. Soufiane crouched beside it, checking the dials and wires.
"Whatever sent that signal isn't on the same frequency anymore," he said.
"Or it doesn't need to be," Zahira murmured.
He looked up at her. "What do you mean?"
Zahira hesitated, her thoughts racing. "When Amal said the voice sounded like her sister… I thought maybe it was grief. But what if—what if it's something else? What if it's using voices we know?"
Soufiane frowned. "Like a recording?"
"Or a mimic."
The word hung in the air. He didn't answer.
The ship rocked slightly, as if something brushed against its side again. Soufiane's head snapped toward the window. Nothing but fog.
Zahira reached for the curtain and drew it shut. "We shouldn't look."
He stared at her, then nodded.
Minutes crawled by. The low hum of the ship filled the silence, interrupted only by the occasional creak of metal. Finally, Soufiane stood. "Get some rest," he said. "I'll take watch with Amal."
Zahira didn't argue. She was too tired to fight the weight behind her eyes. But sleep didn't come easily. She lay on her bunk, listening to Sami's soft breathing beside her. The world seemed to sway with the rhythm of the waves, and each creak of the hull made her body tense.
Then — footsteps. Slow, measured, just outside the door.
Zahira sat up, heart pounding. "Soufiane?" she whispered.
No answer.
The footsteps stopped.
A shadow shifted under the crack of the door, blocking the faint light from the corridor. Then, a soft knock — three times.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Her pulse roared in her ears. She reached for the small knife she kept under her pillow. "Who's there?"
No response.
She stood, inching toward the door. Her hand hovered over the latch. Then she heard it — that same voice again, impossibly close now, just beyond the wood.
> "Zahira… open. It's me."
The voice was Soufiane's.
For a moment, relief flooded her — until she remembered she'd seen Soufiane heading to the control room minutes ago.
Her breath hitched.
The voice repeated, softer, more insistent.
> "Zahira… please."
Her fingers tightened around the knife.
Outside, the handle turned slowly.
Zahira whispered to herself, "That's not him."
The door began to creak open.