It began with a recurring dream. A small, vivid vignette that returned again and again.

Predawn light hangs over the cobblestone streets below. A man pushes a cart piled with bread. Two figures in black drift silently along the stones. The chanting echoes through narrow canyons of block walls. The air is heavy with sea salt, damp and alive.

Then it clicks. The chanting is the Muslim call to prayer. The figures in black wear abaya and scarf. I’m in an ancient city near the sea.

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