The memory dealer of Old Jeddah

The holographic minaret of Al-Shafi’i drilled the Adhan straight into the mastoid bone behind my ear. A neural vibration, not a sound. Maghrib. Above the coral houses of Al-Balad, the Ministry’s drones buzzed back to their hives, glutted on our biometric data. I sat on my synthetic rug in a shop squeezed between a hissing falafel printer and a stall selling ‘Vintage Oud’ — chemically scented motor oil. “Uncle Ibrahim?” The whisper came from the shadows. I didn’t look up from my antique coffee grinder. Grind. Crack. Grind. The only analogue rhythm left in a digital world. “You’re late.” The boy stepped into the flickering neon light. Sixteen, skin too smooth, eyes glassy. Side effects of the Ministry’s latest ‘Optimism Patch’. He looked like a doll left out in the Jeddah sun.