Beschrijving
When dawn rose over Meknes, the first light touched the Fountain not as stone, but as memory made whole. The water glimmered with stories, each droplet carrying the laughter, tears, and prayers of a city reborn.
The people gathered in silence. They did not cheer or shout — they simply listened. For within the water’s song, they heard what they had forgotten: that the heart of the city had always been mercy.
Mohammed stood by the Fountain, his reflection rippling like a half-remembered dream. The Jellaba still hung about his shoulders, though its whisper had grown faint. It no longer spoke in riddles or warnings; instead, it hummed softly — a lullaby of endings and beginnings.
The Old Man approached, his staff now dim, its light spent. He looked upon the Prince not as a mentor, but as an equal — one who had crossed the deserts within and found the oasis beyond.
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