The first light of dawn stretched over the gray sea, a thin blade of gold cutting through the mist. The Marianne drifted slowly south, its hull groaning against the waves, an old survivor like the people it carried. Salt hung thick in the air, and every sound—the clank of chains, the whisper of the wind through broken sails—seemed louder than it should have been.
Soufiane stood near the bow, hands on the rusted rail. His eyes followed the horizon, but his mind was still anchored in the chaos of Marseille: the gunfire, the chase, the smell of burning fuel. It was over—for now—but peace felt like a fragile illusion. He could still feel the vibration of adrenaline in his chest, the ghost of survival pressing against his ribs.
Behind him, the group began to stir. Cynthia emerged first, her dark hair tangled from the wind. She moved quietly, wrapping a torn blanket around Younes, who slept against an overturned crate. The boy's face was pale but calm, a rare picture of innocence amid the ruins of the world. She looked at Soufiane for a moment—no words, just the kind of silence that carried trust.
Amal appeared next, holding a tin mug of water she had boiled to purify. "Here," she said softly, offering it to him. "You look like hell."
Soufiane gave a faint smile. "You're not exactly shining either."
She chuckled, but her eyes darted toward the lower deck. "There's something strange about this ship. I heard noises last night. Like… metal scraping."
"Probably the hull shifting," he said, though he didn't sound convinced.
Mouna joined them with a quiet nod, followed by Julien, still limping slightly from a cut on his leg. Zahira walked slower, carrying her youngest child on her hip while the older two followed closely behind. Murad and Abdelrazak were at the stern, checking the ropes and making sure the engines—miraculously still functional—would hold until they reached the African coast.
For a few hours, life returned to something that almost resembled routine. They scavenged supplies from the ship's storage: cans of beans, old medical kits, water jugs half full. Cynthia took care of sorting the food; Amal and Mouna cleaned the deck and organized sleeping spots. Zahira hummed softly to her children, the melody of a Moroccan lullaby carried by the sea breeze.
But Soufiane couldn't relax. The deeper he explored the ship, the more uneasy he became. Footprints—fresh ones—marked the dust on the lower stairs. Some of the storage crates had been opened and reclosed, the locks twisted. In the kitchen, a candle had burned recently—too recently.
He crouched to inspect the floor, running a finger through the soot of a burnt match. Someone had been here.
When he came back up, Cynthia saw his expression and frowned. "What's wrong?"
"This ship… it's not empty."
Her hand tightened around the knife she carried at her belt. "You mean someone's still here?"
"Maybe," he said quietly. "Or maybe they left in a hurry. Either way, we need to be careful."
Julien approached, overhearing. "There's a cabin locked near the stern. Big metal door. I tried opening it, but it's jammed."
Soufiane exchanged a glance with Amal. "We'll check it tonight. If there's anyone left, we can't risk being surprised."
The day dragged on. The sea was mercifully calm, though the tension on board grew heavier. They took turns keeping watch, scanning the horizon for ships or the distant outline of Africa. Every creak of the hull made them jump.
As the sun dipped into the ocean, painting the sky with orange fire, Soufiane gathered everyone around a small lantern near the deck.
"We're safe for now," he said, voice steady but low. "We'll reach the African coast in two days if the engine holds. But I don't want anyone wandering alone. We don't know who—or what—was on this ship before us."
Mouna crossed her arms. "You really think someone's hiding below?"
Soufiane didn't answer immediately. He looked out into the darkness where the sea blended into the sky. "I've learned not to think. Just to prepare."
The group fell silent. The only sound was the soft murmur of waves and the occasional whisper of the wind through the torn sails.
Later that night, when most had fallen asleep, Soufiane walked down to the lower deck again. He held his flashlight close, its beam slicing through the shadows. The air was damp and smelled of salt and rust. He stopped in front of the metal door Julien had mentioned.
It was marked with faded paint—letters barely legible: Crew Quarters - Restricted Access.
Soufiane pressed his ear to the cold metal.
At first, nothing. Just the hum of the ship. Then—very faintly—he heard it.
A breath.
A slow, ragged breath on the other side.
He froze, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.
And then—three sharp knocks from inside the door.
He stepped back, flashlight trembling slightly in his hand.
The ship groaned with the waves, but that sound—the knocks—wasn't the sea.
Soufiane lifted his gun, aiming at the door, whispering to himself, "Not tonight… not again."
But the silence that followed was worse than any scream.
And somewhere above, on the deck, the lantern flickered—just once—before the flame went out.