The Violet Hour

They reached the square half an hour before sunset.

The square was as busy as ever: greengrocers shouting their prices, the smell of sesame rings drifting out of the bakery, old men playing backgammon in the shade of the mulberry tree. But Yazan noticed something nobody else seemed to: among all the people, there were a strange number who had no shadows. The watermelon seller. A woman carrying a basket. A little boy playing with a ball. None of them had noticed, because people never look at their shadows.

"I've counted seven," said Tala, writing in a little notebook with a purple pen. "At least."

They stood in front of the clock tower. It was a very old stone tower, older than anything else in the city, with four faces, each with a great clock and brass hands. Its walls were covered in ivy, and at the bottom was a small wooden door that had been shut for years, with a rusty padlock on it.

"No," said Yazan. "Not that door. The door in the drawing was... somewhere else."