Casablanca slept uneasily. The curfews had tightened. The once lively streets of Derb Sultan now whispered with caution. Smoke still lingered from the harbor fire, staining the skies above the colonial quarter a ghostly shade of amber.
Yassin stood on the rooftop of the safehouse, watching the city hold its breath.
Time had quieted. Not stopped—but stilled, like the hush before a storm.
Ghosts and Groundwork
Since his return from the Memory Bazaar, Yassin had become something more than a fugitive. He was a knot in the fabric of the city's fate. His every word carried weight, his silence even more.
Samira sensed it. She watched him sketch out the map of the final operation with a precision that went beyond tactics. He seemed to know outcomes before decisions were made.
"Have you seen what happens next?" she asked.
He hesitated. "Only glimpses. But enough to know we don't have many chances left."
The resistance planned a synchronized strike across Casablanca: rail lines, supply depots, administrative outposts. Not to destroy everything, but to fracture French coordination. It had to be swift. Loud. Irreversible.
Khalid called it the last alarm before the dawn.
Preparation
In the dim light of the tannery basement, Yassin tuned the last of the detonator circuits. Around him, Nour packed explosives, Idris checked their makeshift uniforms—stolen from abandoned laundry depots—and Abbas recited Quranic verses under his breath.
Samira arrived with the final coded message: a dispatch schedule intercepted from a French courier. It confirmed what they feared—the next shipment of reinforcements would arrive in forty-eight hours.
"Then we strike before that," said Khalid.
"No," Yassin said. "We strike just as they arrive. When their attention is split."
The room grew silent. Then Khalid nodded.
"May God steady our hands."
Echoes of the Past
That night, Yassin walked alone to the ruins of his childhood street. Half the buildings were unrecognizable. But he found the wall where he once carved his name.
It was still there.
Beside it, carved in smaller script, was another name: Layla.
His sister.
He remembered the day he left her. The last time he saw her was decades in the future—her face blurred by time and illness. She had told him: "If you could change anything, make sure we live with dignity. Not just survive."
He placed his hand on the stone. "I'm trying."
The watch pulsed faintly in his pocket—warm, not urgent. As if affirming his path.
The Night Before
In the safehouse, the resistance shared a final meal: lentils, bread, tea. Laughter masked nerves. Idris played a worn-out lute. Nour braided her hair tight. Abbas told a joke so old it circled back into being funny.
Khalid stood and offered a toast—not with wine, but with mint tea.
"To the noise we'll make. May it never be forgotten."
Samira added, "To the quiet before it—so we remember why it matters."
Yassin looked at them—his family not by blood, but by fire.
Then he looked to the stars.
"To the morning that will follow."
To be continued in Chapter 10: The Day of Smoke and Salt