The hour before iftar. The medina at its quietest. The kitchen is done — harira, dates, chebakia, eggs, bread. Same table every night for a month. The souks are empty. The cats are in charge.

The cannon goes off from the Koutoubia and then — the spoons. Hundreds of them, metal on ceramic, all at once. Doors open. Children run. The whole derb smells like harira for about thirty seconds.

From the rooftop, the sound carries far.