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Alya :

The sea rocked our small ship gently, like a mother trying to soothe a restless child. I sat near the mast, patching one of the torn sails, but my hands moved slowly, my mind elsewhere.

The story of how we all came to be here — this little group of broken souls — often seemed too heavy to carry.

Amira sat beside me, weaving thin ropes together, her fingers swift. I glanced at her, her dark hair a little messy from the salt air, her brows slightly furrowed. It was hard to believe that just months ago, she was meant to be married.

She wasn’t my blood sister. Not really. But we grew up together in the same courtyard, the same streets, the same endless summers filled with scraped knees and stolen figs. Her mother was a neighbor, a close friend of mine, until a fever took her when we were still little girls. My mother took Amira in without a second thought. Since then, we had shared everything — clothes, secrets, tears. I couldn't imagine life without her.

Now, neither of us had mothers anymore. Neither of us had homes.

The truth was, before boarding the ship, we hadn’t known any of the men. Not Khalid, not Samir, not even Zayd. We were strangers thrown together by war and grief.

Tartus had fallen.

We learned bits and pieces over time, in the rare moments when the men let down their guard and spoke about it. How the city had been swallowed in fire and screams. How they had fought street by street, alley by alley, until there was no one left to fight for.

They found Tariq during one of the last searches through the broken houses. The boy had been curled up in a corner, his face smeared with soot, his eyes wide and glassy. He hadn't spoken for two days after they pulled him out of the rubble. Khalid said the boy hadn't cried — not once. Not even when the fires raged around him.

He just clung to life.

Sometimes I thought all of us were clinging like that, quiet and stubborn, refusing to be swallowed by the world.

“Do you think we'll find it?” Amira asked quietly, her voice breaking the silence.

I knew what she meant — the map.

The one we found deep inside the forest of the island we had just left. An old, brittle piece of parchment, edges darkened with time. It spoke of a hidden island — an island rich with fruits and honey, rivers of clear water, birds of every color, and no war, no masters, no slaves. A paradise.

Amira smiled a little, the first smile I’d seen from her in days. “Maybe it's just a story,” she said, “like the fairytales my mother used to tell.”

I shrugged. “Maybe. But even fairytales have a little truth in them, don’t they?”

Below deck, Zayd was resting. Slowly — painfully slowly — he was getting better. His fever had broken the day before, though his movements were still stiff and careful. Sometimes I caught him staring at the sky, the endless blue stretching far beyond our reach, and I wondered if he still believed we had a chance.

"Land!" Tariq suddenly shouted from the front of the ship, his thin voice sharp and excited.

We all jumped to our feet. I shaded my eyes against the sun. Far on the horizon, a thin smudge of green floated above the water. Land.

Hope.

Khalid and Samir rushed forward, speaking quickly in low voices, trying to decide how best to approach it. Zayd appeared at the door of the cabin, one hand pressed against the wall to steady himself. His face was paler than usual, but his eyes were bright.