The farmhouse felt like a strange haven, its walls thick with the scent of aging wood and earth, the creaks of its ancient beams settling under the weight of time and secrets. The quiet of the night outside contrasted sharply with the chaotic echoes of their flight, but inside, Élodie could almost pretend—almost believe—that they were safe, that the world outside had ceased its ceaseless storm.
Vincent lay on a cot in the corner of the dimly lit room, his body still and pale, though the fevered glint in his eyes betrayed his condition. He was alive, but only just. Each shallow breath seemed to draw him closer to some unfathomable edge, and Élodie's heart clenched in her chest every time she looked at him.
Luc had already begun assessing their situation, his eyes scanning the room, his mind far ahead of them all. He paced the floor, checking windows, doors—every possible escape route should the soldiers come. But for now, it was only them—only the three of them.
Élodie sat at Vincent's side, her fingers brushing his forehead as she watched him in silence. His breath was ragged, but he was alive. He was still with her. She could not allow herself to think otherwise, not yet. Not when they had come so far.
The soft creak of the floorboards pulled her attention away. Luc stood in the doorway, his eyes locking with hers, an unreadable expression on his face.
"Are we alone?" Élodie asked, her voice low.
"For now," Luc replied, but the edge in his voice was sharp. "But not for long. The Gestapo will scour the region. It's only a matter of time before they catch on."
Élodie nodded, her heart heavy with the weight of the truth. The danger was far from over. In fact, it had just begun. They were not safe. None of them were. And the longer they stayed here, the more it would eat away at them, slowly, like an insidious disease.
She turned her gaze back to Vincent. "We need to get him medical help. He won't survive much longer without it."
Luc's jaw tightened. "I know. But it's not safe to move him just yet. We need to wait—just a few hours longer."
Élodie felt the pang of frustration deep in her chest. Waiting. Always waiting. The war had stolen so many moments from her. And now, it threatened to take even this fragile chance of survival.
"I can't just let him lie here," she said, her voice a quiet fury.
Luc didn't answer right away, but his eyes softened, just a little. He knew her too well. Knew that there was no reasoning with her when it came to Vincent. They both understood that she couldn't bear to lose him again—not when they were so close.
"I'll go get what we need," Luc said finally. "Stay with him."
Élodie didn't argue. She couldn't. Luc had never let them down before. He would return. He had to.
As the sound of his footsteps faded into the night, Élodie turned her full attention to Vincent. She could hear his labored breathing, each exhale a slow, painful reminder of the cost of the war. He had fought for so much more than just survival. And now, she had to make sure that fight didn't end here.
Her hand moved to his, holding it, as if the simple touch could anchor him, hold him steady in the chaos of the world. She could feel the pulse beneath his skin, weak but steady. He was alive. That was all that mattered.
What if we never make it out of this?
The thought surfaced, unbidden, in her mind. What if this was the end of the road? What if the war claimed them all before they ever had a chance to rebuild? What would be left of them—of her—when the dust settled? She couldn't think about it. She couldn't allow herself to entertain such thoughts.
But the truth was that she had no control over any of it. War took lives, destroyed everything, and left behind a barren landscape of broken souls and fractured dreams. Still, there was one thing she could hold onto. She could protect him. She could protect them.
The sound of footsteps returning jerked her from her reverie. Luc was back, his face grim but determined, and behind him, a shadow loomed in the doorway—a figure draped in a dark cloak, their face obscured by the low light.
Luc's gaze flickered toward the figure, and Élodie felt a sudden unease stir within her. This wasn't part of the plan.
"This is Sophie," Luc said, his voice firm, but there was a tension in the air. "She's a medic. She's the only one who can help Vincent."
Élodie's heart skipped a beat as Sophie stepped fully into the light. The woman's face was stern, her eyes dark with experience and the weight of years spent in hiding, but her hands—Élodie couldn't help but notice—were steady. They were the hands of someone who had seen far too much and yet, still held onto the will to heal.
Sophie didn't waste time with introductions. She moved quickly to Vincent's side, assessing him with a practiced eye, her fingers pressing against his pulse, checking the state of his wounds.
"He's lost a lot of blood," Sophie said quietly, her voice cool and professional. "But he's not beyond saving. If we can get him stable…"
"If?" Élodie's voice caught in her throat. She didn't dare to finish the sentence.
"If we get the right supplies," Sophie continued, her tone resolute. "And if we keep him calm. But this is not going to be easy."
The air in the room thickened. Élodie watched as Sophie worked, her movements precise, her focus entirely on Vincent. For a moment, Élodie allowed herself to breathe, watching as the medic did what she could to bring him back from the brink.
But even as Sophie worked, the sense of impending danger remained. They weren't alone in this farmhouse. Not truly. The war was never far, and there would be more soldiers, more eyes, searching for them. It was only a matter of time before everything came crashing down again.
For now, all she could do was hold Vincent's hand, as if that would somehow keep him tethered to life, and pray that they weren't running out of time.