He didn’t mean to be there. Córdoba wasn’t on his list — it was a detour, the kind you don’t plan but justify later. The train had been delayed. The sun was too harsh in Granada. The city called, softly but insistently, like a dream you barely remember but still follow. He found himself walking toward the Mezquita, not out of faith—he didn’t think of it that way— but out of something quieter. A pull, like gravity but older. Inside, the silence was alive. Arches arched inside arches, shadows inside light. Columns stood like silent witnesses. The echo of centuries hummed low under his feet. He wandered deeper until he saw her. She stood alone beneath one of the ancient domes, head tilted back, eyes half-closed. As if listening. Not to the tour guides, not to the tourists' shuffle, but to something beneath the stone. She looked like she belonged there — not as a visitor, but as someone summoned. He didn’t know why, but something inside him paused. Stilled. Re...
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