The camp had no name.
It didn't need one.
It sat hidden in a ravine above the Ebro, nestled between forgotten goat trails and ruined olive terraces.
To some it was a refugee outpost, to others a resistance node.
But to those who lived there children, widows, ex-soldiers, ex-teachers, ex-husbands it was simply "el lugar," the place.
They'd survived nearly eight months since Moreau had vanished into the Pyrenees.
In that time, they buried five of their own, delivered two children, and dismantled twelve Fascist patrols that dared skirt the hills.
And every Sunday, in the crumbling chapel, they lit the lantern.
Not for God.
For him.
Carmen still remembered the night he'd arrived shirt torn, ribs broken, half-carried by two farmers who whispered only, "El francés."
His hands had been bloodied from clutching another man's body.
They'd saved him, barely.
And in the weeks that followed, he'd saved them.
Not by gunfire or speeches.
But by presence.
By planning.
By listening.
