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The tide had fully receded, leaving the coastal

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lagoon as smooth as dark glass.

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In the center of this mirrored expanse, the

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mosque seemed untethered from the earth, resting

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instead upon a cushion of soft night light

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and stillness.

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Tarek pushed his wooden skiff silently across the

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water, his paddle barely disturbing the

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surface.

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Every evening after the final prayers, he took

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this path to the sanctuary, drawn by

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an unspoken devotion to the quiet.

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As he drew closer, the intricate tile texture

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of the minarets came into sharp relief, catching

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the silvery glow of the moon in patterns

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of turquoise and ivory that looked alive.

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The architecture was a masterpiece of human hands,

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yet it felt as though it had simply

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blossomed from the sea.

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He drifted nearer until his bow nudged the

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stone foundation.

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There were no booming voices here, only the

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faint, rhythmic lapping of tiny waves against

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the base of the walls, a soothing cadence

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that matched the beating of his own heart.

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Tarek tied his boat to a rusted iron

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ring, stepped onto the cool, damp marble of

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the

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outer terrace, and breathed in the scent of

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salt air and blooming night jasmine.

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Surrounded by the tranquil, spiritual embrace of the

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dark water, he bowed his head, feeling

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entirely weightless in the heart of the night.