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The mornings were always quiet now, but today the silence was heavy — thick, like fog pressing against the skin.

Alya sat near the corner of the cabin where the light touched the wooden floor in soft streaks. Amira was still sleeping, and Ilham was bent over Umm al-Kabira, helping her drink something warm. The old woman’s breath was slow but steady. Outside, faint voices drifted across the deck — the men changing shifts again.

They didn’t come down unless it was important. And the women didn’t go up unless they had to.

Except Alya.

She had gone before, and she’d go again. But now, things felt different. Ever since they left the island behind, something was wrong.

She reached into the basket by the wall and pulled out a cloth-wrapped piece of dried bread. But when she broke it in half, she noticed the edge was damp. Not seawater. It smelled bitter.

Strange.

She looked toward the corner where the food was stored, and her eyes caught a small figure crouching — Tariq.

“Tariq?” she said softly.

He didn’t look up right away. Just traced a finger across the floor, whispering something. She moved closer.

“Tariq. What are you saying?”

He looked up then — startled, like he hadn’t heard her before.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “I was just… remembering something.”

Alya hesitated. “What kind of something?”

“The names of the men who used to come to our house,” he said, almost too quietly.

“What men?”

“Before they burned it down.”

Her heart froze. “Tariq… who taught you those names?”

He looked up with wide eyes. “They said I had to remember. In case I ever saw them again.”

Before she could ask more, loud shouting came from above. Heavy steps. Then Khalid’s voice:

“Zayd! You’re bleeding!”

Alya turned toward the door. The men never raised their voices unless something was wrong. Very wrong.

“I’m fine,” came Zayd’s voice. Firm, but strained.

She stood up, confused. Her feet moved before her thoughts did, toward the stairs.

She didn’t climb all the way — that would have been improper. Instead, she waited near the steps.

“You’re not fine,” Khalid said. “When did this start?”

“It’s just a scratch.”

“Then why is your shirt soaked?”

Alya held her breath.

Zayd’s voice was lower now. “I didn’t want to worry anyone. Especially not the women. Or Tariq.”

“You’re burning up. You need to lie down.”

“I can’t. If they see me weak—”

“Zayd.” It was Samir this time. “Let us help.”

A pause. Then:

“Get the water. And tell no one.”

Alya backed away before they could see her. Her chest was tight. Zayd — who had taken charge when no one else could, who had protected the rules and order between them — was sick.