The world was gray when they pushed the boat into the sea.
A pale dawn strained through the horizon, brushing cold light over the foam. Cynthia's hands were trembling as she held the rope, the salt biting her palms. Soufiane stood at the prow, eyes fixed southward — toward a home that might no longer exist.
Behind them, the shore was nothing but shadow and memory.
Mouna, Julien, Amal, Zahira, Younes, Myriam, Mourad, and the children — all moved in silence. The motor coughed to life, a desperate animal sound against the endless hush of water.
For a moment, there was peace.
The sea stretched wide and quiet, its skin smooth as glass. The group barely spoke, only the wind whispering through their clothes. Amal watched the wake ripple behind them and murmured, "Feels like we're crossing between worlds."
Zahira answered softly, "Maybe we are."
She kept her eyes on her children, curled up beneath a tarp. Their faces looked ghostly in the first light — a reminder of what they still fought for.
Hours passed. The sun rose, the air thickened with salt and fear.
Then, without warning, the horizon turned black.
The storm came like a beast tearing through the clouds.
Winds roared, flattening waves into walls of fury. Rain slammed the boat. The motor sputtered once, twice, then died — silence swallowed by thunder.
"Hold on!" Soufiane shouted.
The next wave hit. The world flipped sideways. Cynthia's scream was drowned in the crash. Water surged over the deck. Julien fought the rudder, his face raw with strain, as Mouna clung to the side — knuckles white, eyes wide with disbelief.
A lightning flash revealed her slipping.
"Mouna!" Julien lunged, his body vanishing in spray. His hand caught her arm just as another wave crashed over them both. For a heartbeat, they were gone — swallowed whole by the sea.
Cynthia's heart broke open. She screamed their names, but the wind devoured her voice. Amal grabbed a rope, tied it to the mast, and threw herself toward them. Her eyes met Julien's — a desperate, wordless plea — before she heaved them both back aboard.
They lay gasping, drenched, shivering.
Julien's hand stayed on Mouna's wrist even after she coughed out seawater. Neither of them spoke. The look they shared said everything: the storm had stripped them bare.
Hours blurred. They bailed water, clung to the wreck of control.
Younes managed to restart the motor between strikes of lightning. Every face was pale, carved by fear and exhaustion. Mourad shouted prayers between waves. Zahira held her son to her chest, whispering promises that felt fragile even to her own ears.
When dawn finally broke again, the sea was still heaving — but gentler now, like a creature that had spent its rage.
The storm rolled away toward the north, leaving them bruised and trembling in its wake.
Soufiane raised his eyes to the horizon.
Through the thin veil of morning mist, he saw something dark — distant land, barely visible. Africa.
No one cheered. No one spoke.
They simply stared, salt-streaked and hollow-eyed, at the faint outline ahead. The world was quiet again, as if the ocean itself was granting them a moment of mercy.
Cynthia whispered, voice raw, "We made it."
Soufiane nodded slowly. "Almost."
The boat creaked beneath them. The wind had died. The sea smelled of iron and endings.
And as the sunlight rose, painting the waves gold, they drifted forward — broken but alive — toward whatever waited on the far shore.