The pounding of their footsteps was drowned by the distant echo of Gestapo voices, calling out commands in clipped, harsh tones. The night had become a maze of terror, each shadow concealing an enemy, each step carrying them further into the unknown. Élodie's lungs burned, her body numb with the kind of exhaustion that only comes when you are running from death itself.
Luc's hand was firm on her arm, guiding her through the thick woods, but she barely felt him. The world around her had faded to a blur of moonlight and rustling trees, the blood-soaked image of Vincent's lifeless form etched into her mind. His words echoed in her ears: You have to survive.
She didn't know how she was going to do it, or if she even wanted to anymore.
They had no choice but to keep moving.
Ahead, the safe house loomed, its silhouette barely visible against the dark sky. A weak light flickered from one of its windows, a faint sign of life in the midst of the chaos. The promise of safety, of refuge—everything Vincent had died for—was within reach. But so was the terror of the Gestapo, and the longer they took to get there, the higher the chances that they wouldn't make it at all.
"Faster," Luc's voice was low but urgent. "We're almost there."
Élodie barely registered the words. She could feel the cold grip of despair tightening around her chest. But then something shifted—a sliver of clarity cutting through the fog of grief. Vincent's sacrifice hadn't been for nothing. She had to live. She had to survive. For him. For all of them.
The safe house. It was so close.
Another shot rang out, and this time, it was too close for comfort. Élodie ducked instinctively, pulling Luc to the ground beside her. The sound of the bullet whizzing past her head was a harsh reminder that they were being hunted—closer now, the enemy closing in.
"Stay down," Luc muttered, his voice low but steady. "We need to get to the door without being seen."
Élodie nodded, heart racing, her mind already working a hundred miles a minute. They had to move. Had to get inside. It was their only chance.
The sound of boots crunching on the dry earth drifted to them, followed by the ominous glow of flashlights slicing through the darkness. The Gestapo patrol was nearing.
"Wait for it," Luc whispered. He gave her a quick look, his face hard with resolve, before turning his attention back to the patrol.
Élodie didn't dare breathe, her body tensed like a coiled spring, every muscle straining. The footsteps drew nearer, the searchlights sweeping back and forth with mechanical precision. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, the urge to flee almost overwhelming. But they couldn't—not yet.
The Gestapo was close enough now that she could see their faces, their uniforms glinting in the darkness like ghosts of death.
Luc made a small, barely perceptible gesture, and without thinking, Élodie followed him. They moved swiftly, silently, each step calculated, each second stretching endlessly as they crept toward the safe house door. The patrol had passed them by, unaware of their presence—this time, luck was on their side.
The door was right there.
Luc reached it first, pressing his back against the cool wood, and then, with a swift motion, he turned the handle and ushered Élodie inside. She stumbled in, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of the interior. She was inside, finally safe—for now.
But even inside the safety of the stone walls, Élodie's heart continued to race. She was still haunted by the image of Vincent's lifeless body, by the cold, empty silence that followed his last breath. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.
Behind her, Luc shut the door softly, and for a long moment, there was only the sound of their labored breathing. The world outside had gone quiet, the oppressive stillness wrapping around them like a suffocating cloak. Élodie didn't dare look back.
"We made it," Luc said, his voice low, his tone a mixture of relief and disbelief. But it wasn't the relief she felt—it was something else, something darker. The storm was far from over.
Élodie didn't respond. Her eyes were focused on the dimly lit room before her, the flickering light casting long shadows on the walls. She could hear the faintest sound of a creaking floorboard upstairs. Someone was waiting for them.
"Élodie," Luc said, more gently this time, stepping closer to her. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "We have to keep moving. The Gestapo won't stop until they find us. The Resistance needs you. You can't let what happened to Vincent be in vain."
She nodded, though the words felt hollow in her throat. What did survival mean if it came at the cost of everything she had loved? The people, the ideals, the life they had been building—all of it felt fragile, so easily destroyed.
"You're right," she said, the words thick with emotion. "But it doesn't feel right. How do we keep going after this?"
Luc's grip on her shoulder tightened. "We keep going because we have no choice. Vincent's sacrifice was for this. For us. For the cause."
A tear slipped down Élodie's cheek, but she quickly wiped it away, determined not to let her grief consume her. She had no choice but to live, to fight, and to honor those who had already given everything.
"Let's move," she whispered, steeling herself for whatever came next.
They moved through the house, up the narrow stairs to the top floor. The space was sparse but functional. A small fireplace crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the stone walls. At the far end of the room, a figure was silhouetted against the window—someone waiting, someone with the answers they needed.
As she stepped into the room, Élodie's heart skipped a beat. It was Sophie, standing near a map pinned to the wall. Her face was drawn, tired, but there was an air of quiet determination about her.
"The next move," Sophie said without turning around. "We're not safe here for long. We need to leave the village, move to the next safe house."
Luc stepped forward, his voice tight. "How soon can we go?"
Sophie turned to face them, her eyes sharp, her expression resolute. "Tomorrow. Tonight, we plan."
And just like that, Élodie knew. The war was far from over. The future was uncertain, and the road ahead would be filled with more loss, more sacrifice. But she wasn't alone. Not yet.