Eid used to arrive before the sun did. She would wake to the smell of ghee and cardamom drifting under her door, to the sharp hiss of onions hitting hot oil, and to her mother’s bangles chiming softly as she stirred shemai in the kitchen. The house buzzed: cousins fought for the bathroom, fists rapped on locked doors, buckets sloshed, and laughter crashed along narrow hallways. Even the curtains seemed brighter then, breathing in the pale gold of morning as if they, too, were excited.