Tanger.

I came here to write.

To listen to the wind between the buildings,

to the sea that keeps its secrets,

to the sun that forgives everything.

The city changed — new hospitals, new faces, new light.

Yet something in its air still remembers

the footsteps of those who once believed in tomorrow.

At Café Française, time slows down.

The waiter brings mint tea and silence.

The light paints poems on the marble tables.

And as I write, I realize —

Tanger isn’t a place, it’s a breath.

A soft rhythm between exile and return.

Tanger, you have learned to breathe again.

And so have I.

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