Bare feet, cold tiles. No fountain yet. Just the birds and the muezzin and then quiet. The courtyard is still cool — something about the walls, the fountain basin.

Yunnan black tea in the chipped cup. Not mint tea. Mint tea is later.

The zouak on the ceiling has gone pink where the reds faded. The blues are still gorgeous. At this hour, everything looks right.

Half seven — fountain on, kettle on, footsteps on the stairs.