At 6:14 on the first evening of Ramadan, the lanes around Bab Zuweila turn from stone to constellation. A brass fanous catches in a doorway, then another answers from a balcony; the street gathers its own weather.
Light is a practice, not a backdrop
I noticed the same rhythm in the old market last winter: dark thresholds, a warm pane, then a table set beneath it. The lantern does not erase the night; it gives the night an edge, a center, and a reason to linger.