The rain had not stopped since dawn. It drummed softly against the stone roof of the safe house, a steady rhythm that should have brought calm but instead made Isla restless. She sat by the window, her hand unconsciously resting on her belly. The child moved faintly, a delicate reminder of the life she was fighting to protect.
Vera's house was hidden deep in the woods, wrapped in mist and silence. From the outside, it looked abandoned—cracked stone walls, vines curling across the windows, and smoke so thin it vanished into the gray sky. But inside, it was alive with whispers, the low murmur of rebels who came and went in the night, trading information, carrying weapons, or simply seeking shelter before vanishing again.
Isla had been here for eight days. Eight days of uneasy safety.
