Whispers of the Jellaba

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.
"You have restored the water," he said, "but more than that — you have restored its meaning. May you never again mistake strength for righteousness."

The Prince bowed, understanding that power was never meant to rule, only to serve.

Later, when the sun climbed high, he walked alone through the market — once a place of lost names, now alive with reunion. Merchants called out, children ran between the stalls, and somewhere a song rose — a tune carried on the same desert wind that had once whispered warnings.

At the edge of the city, where the dunes began, he paused. The horizon shimmered, and for an instant, he thought he saw her — the vision of the Pearl, radiant and smiling, watching him as she faded into the light.

He smiled too, and said a quiet farewell.

As evening came, the Jellaba stirred one last time.
"Will you leave me behind?" it asked, its voice no louder than sand shifting beneath the stars.
"No," said the Prince. "You are the memory of what was, and the promise of what may be. I will carry you, but not as a burden — as a reminder."

And so he did.

When the night settled over Meknes, the Fountain sang again. Not loudly, not proudly — but with the steady, patient rhythm of life restored. And if one listened closely, beyond the sound of flowing water, one might still hear a whisper — gentle as wind on silk — telling of a prince, a robe, and a city that remembered mercy.