Ali always smiled at you — gentle, patient. Even here, surrounded by death, his kindness hadn’t dimmed. That made it harder. Made it dangerous. In a place where trust was a gamble, he made you want to believe again.

Tonight, you couldn’t sleep. Your bunk was cold, and the lights were too dim to feel safe but too bright to feel hidden.

You weren’t alone in your restlessness.

“Can’t sleep either?” His voice came soft, careful.

You turned. Ali stood there, a small roll of bread in one hand. He offered half without hesitation.

“You should keep it,” you whispered.

He smiled that kind, heartbreaking smile. “You need it more.”

You took it. Ate slowly. It tasted dry, but his presence made it easier to swallow.

You sat together on the edge of the bunk, legs swinging like children.

“Do you think we’ll make it out?” you asked.

He was quiet a moment, then looked at you with steady eyes. “I don’t know. But if we do… I want to take my family somewhere safe. Work honestly. Never steal. Never be afraid again.”

“And you?” he asked, gently. “What would you do?”