The Stage of Childhood
I remember a dusty alleyway in Marrakech where three boys suddenly stopped their game of marbles the moment they saw me. They didn't run; instead, they straightened their shirts, puffed out their chests, and began to march with the exaggerated…
The Architecture of Silence
In the quiet corners of an old house, dust settles like a soft, grey blanket over the things we have stopped needing. We tend to think of abandonment as a sudden departure, a slamming door or a hurried exit, but it is rarely so dramatic. It…
The Weight of the Horizon
I keep a small, rusted iron key in a velvet-lined box, though I have long since forgotten which door it once opened. It is heavy for its size, cold to the touch, and carries the faint, metallic scent of a house that no longer stands. We spend…