There is a particular kind of silence that only exists in the minutes before the sun fully clears the horizon in Béchar. I stood by the water’s edge this morning, watching the mist dance over the surface as the palms began to catch that first, fragile glow of gold. In my line of work, the days are often defined by noise—the clatter of typewriters, the urgency of deadlines, and the persistent, heavy weight of uncovering truths that others would prefer kept in the shadows. But before the city awakens and the demands of the news cycle pull me back into the fray, I find that I need these moments of stillness to recalibrate. Observing the landscape in this state of transition reminds me that even the most desolate places hold a profound capacity for renewal and light. It is a necessary ritual for me, a way to clear the mental clutter and prepare for the long, complex investigations that lie ahead. Standing there, watching the lone figure across the bank also seeking a moment of peace, I was struck by how vital it is that we protect these quiet spaces in our lives. We spend so much time chasing stories that we often forget to simply breathe in the reality of the world around us. Today, I am carrying this calm with me into the office, trusting that a clearer mind will lead to a more honest narrative.