Eid Morning

Fatima opened her eyes before the sun did.

The house was still. So still she could hear the clock in the hallway going tick... tick... tick... like it was whispering a secret just for her.

She lay in her bed for a moment, blanket pulled up to her chin, and listened. No clanking pots. No cousins shouting. No Baba's booming laugh shaking the walls. Not yet.

Fatima sat up slowly, carefully, like the quietness was a soap bubble balanced on her finger and she didn't want it to pop.

She slid her feet into her slippers — the ones with the little embroidered flowers that Nano had sent from far away — and tiptoed to her window. Outside, the sky was that color that isn't quite night and isn't quite morning. A purple-blue, like the inside of a plum. One star still hung there, stubborn, refusing to leave.

"I see you," Fatima whispered to it.

The star said nothing back, but she felt like it winked.

She turned and looked at her new clothes hanging on the closet door. Mama had pressed them last night — the emerald green shalwar kameez with tiny mirrors sewn along the edges that caught the light and threw it around the room like little dancing sparks. Fatima reached out and touched the fabric. Cool and smooth under her fingers.

She didn't put it on yet. Not yet.

Instead, she opened her bedroom door — slowly, slowly — and stepped into the hallway. The hallway was dark and warm and smelled like something. She stopped. Breathed in. There it was. Sheer khurma. Mama must have made it late last night after Fatima fell asleep. The sweet milky smell of it curled through the house like a ribbon, and Fatima followed it the way you follow a trail of something wonderful.

Past Baba and Mama's room, where she could hear Baba's snoring — that familiar rumble, like a friendly bear hibernating.

Past the little room where her brother Yusuf slept, door open a crack, one foot poking out from under his blanket like it was trying to escape.

Past the bathroom where the fancy guest towels were already set out — the ones nobody was allowed to touch on regular days.

Down the stairs, one step at a time, her hand sliding along the railing. The third step from the bottom creaked, and Fatima froze. She held her breath.

Nothing. Nobody stirred.

She let her breath out slow and smiled.

The kitchen was the heart of everything, and when Fatima reached it, she stopped in the doorway and just... looked.

The counter was covered — covered — with dishes and bowls and trays, all sealed with foil or tucked under cloth. The big glass bowl of sheer khurma sat in the middle like a queen on a throne, the vermicelli noodles swimming lazily in sweet milk with pistachios and almonds floating on top like little green and brown boats. Next to it sat a platter of samosas, golden and triangular, packed together in neat rows. A tower of round gulab jamun glistened with syrup in a deep dish.

On the kitchen table, Mama had stacked the gift envelopes — Eidi — in a neat little pile. White envelopes with names written on them in Mama's careful handwriting. Fatima saw her own name on one. And Yusuf's. And ones for all the cousins who would come later.

She didn't open hers. She just touched the corner of it and smiled again.

Fatima climbed onto the big chair by the window — the one where Baba sat to drink his chai every morning — and pulled her knees up to her chest. From here, she could see the backyard. The fairy lights Baba had strung up yesterday were still on, glowing soft and white against the fence like a sky full of fallen stars. The tablecloths on the outdoor tables fluttered a tiny bit in the breeze. Everything was set up. Everything was ready. Everything was waiting.

Just like me, Fatima thought.

She rested her chin on her knees and watched the sky through the window start to change. The purple-blue was melting now, turning pink at the edges, then orange, like someone was painting it with watercolors and letting them bleed together. The stubborn little star from her bedroom window — she couldn't find it anymore. It had finally gone home.

A bird sang. Just one. A single, clear note that floated through the morning like a bell.

Then another bird answered. And another.

Fatima felt something warm growing in her chest, right behind her ribs, like a candle flame that someone had just lit. It wasn't excitement exactly — though that was there too, buzzing in her fingertips. It was something bigger. Something quieter.

It was the feeling of before.

Before Uncle Tariq arrived with his loud voice and his arms full of presents and his terrible jokes that made everyone groan and laugh at the same time. Before Auntie Noor came with baby Zahra on her hip, smelling like roses and saying Eid Mubarak, Eid Mubarak to everyone she hugged. Before all the cousins piled through the door in their new clothes, showing off their shoes, comparing whose outfit was the shiniest.

Before the kitchen got loud with sizzling and stirring and Mama calling out orders like a general. Before Baba's laugh filled every room. Before Yusuf spilled something — because Yusuf always spilled something — and before Nano called on the phone and everyone crowded around to shout Eid Mubarak, Nano! all at once so she couldn't hear any of them.

Before the hugging and the eating and the games in the backyard and the Eidi envelopes and the sticky fingers and the crumbs on fancy clothes and the gratitude and the fullness of it all.

Right now, it was just Fatima and the quiet house and the smell of sheer khurma and the sky turning gold.

She pressed her hand against the window. The glass was cool. Outside, the first real ray of sunlight broke over the fence and poured across the yard like honey. It reached the fairy lights and made them look shy — oh, you don't need us anymore, they seemed to say.

Upstairs, a door opened.

Fatima's ears perked up.

Footsteps. Soft ones. Then the bathroom faucet running. Then Mama's voice, muffled and warm: "Is anyone else awake yet?"

Then Baba's voice, deep and rumbly: "Eid Mubarak, jaan."

Then — right on schedule — the sound of Yusuf falling out of bed. A thump and then a bewildered little voice: "Is it Eid? IS IT EID?!"

Fatima laughed. She couldn't help it. The laugh bubbled up from that warm place in her chest and spilled right out.

The house was waking up.

She could hear it stretching and yawning and coming alive, like a great big friendly animal opening its eyes. Footsteps upstairs, moving faster now. Yusuf's bare feet slapping the hallway floor. Mama's voice calling, "Don't run on the stairs!" Baba already humming a song.

The day was beginning. The beautiful, noisy, delicious, wonderful day.

Fatima slid down from the big chair. She straightened her pajamas, tucked her hair behind her ears, and took one more look at the kitchen full of food and the backyard full of light and the sky full of gold.

Then she took a deep breath and held it for just one second — one last second of the stillness, safe inside her like a treasure in a pocket.

She let it go.

"EID MUBARAK!" she shouted up the stairs, as loud as her voice would carry.

And the house shouted back.