The morning did not arrive.
This was unusual, but not immediately alarming, because mornings were known to be unreliable in this town. Sometimes they arrived late. Sometimes they arrived twice. Once, they arrived wearing the wrong color and had to be sent back politely. But this time, the morning simply did not come at all.
The night stayed.
It stayed with the confidence of something that had paid rent.
At first, people assumed it was a delay.
"This happens," said a man who had no authority on the matter but said it loudly enough to sound convincing. He stood outside his shop, holding a broom he had no intention of using, staring at the sky as if eye contact might shame it into changing.
The sky did not react.
Streetlamps remained on, glowing with the tired dignity of workers who had accepted that no one was coming to replace them. The moon hung low and awkward, like it had been caught doing something it shouldn't and decided to commit fully instead of apologizing.
Inside a bakery that had opened out of habit rather than logic, a woman placed bread into an oven that was already warm from yesterday.
"It's still night," her assistant said.
"Yes," the woman replied. "But it's business hours."
"According to what?"
"According to the bread."
They both stared at the dough. The dough did not disagree.
Across the street, a man checked his watch for the seventh time in one minute. The watch displayed a time that looked like a suggestion rather than a fact.
"This can't be right," he muttered.
The watch began to sweat.
He put it back in his pocket, uncomfortable with the sudden intimacy.
People continued their routines. Not because they believed morning would arrive, but because stopping felt like admitting something was wrong, and nobody wanted that responsibility. Children were sent to school that did not open. Offices unlocked themselves out of embarrassment. A rooster crowed once, realized the mistake, and refused to elaborate.
Then Tung Tung Sahur appeared.
He did not arrive dramatically. There was no sound, no announcement, no sense of entrance. One moment the street was empty, and the next moment he was standing there, holding his wooden bat loosely in one hand, his wide eyes reflecting the glow of the streetlamp beside him.
Someone noticed him and froze.
Someone else noticed that person freezing and froze as well.
Soon, a small group had gathered, all standing very still, as if movement might cause something to finalize.
"Is it him?" someone whispered.
"I think so," said another. "But he's not doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"You know. The thing."
Tung Tung Sahur tilted his head slightly. Not in response to the conversation—he did not appear to be listening—but because his head sometimes did that.
A man stepped forward, clearing his throat with authority he had not earned.
"Excuse me," the man said, addressing Tung. "Is it morning yet?"
Tung Tung Sahur looked at him.
He did not answer.
The man nodded, as if this response confirmed something important.
"I see," he said. "Thank you for your time."
The crowd relaxed slightly. This interaction had gone better than expected.
Somewhere, a clock struck a number it was not supposed to know.
By the time the second hour of not-morning passed, people began to feel cheated.
"This is false advertising," complained a woman who sold calendars. "I sold three yesterday."
Her husband, who had been staring at the same page of a newspaper for twenty minutes, grunted.
"The headline changed," he said.
"What does it say now?"
"It says 'Still Happening.'"
"That's not helpful."
"No," he agreed. "But it's accurate."
A small argument broke out near the town square between two men who disagreed about whether time was broken or simply resting.
"It's broken," said the first man. "Look around."
"It's resting," said the second. "You look tired."
They stared at each other until both forgot what they were arguing about and wandered off in opposite directions, satisfied that they had defended their positions adequately.
Tung Tung Sahur remained where he was.
He had not moved, except slightly, and even that was debatable.
A child approached him cautiously.
"Mister," the child asked, "are you supposed to be here?"
Tung Tung Sahur blinked once.
The child nodded, reassured.
"Okay," the child said, and ran off, having learned something he would not be able to explain later.
That was when the sound began.
At first, it was barely noticeable. A hum, low and uncertain, like the world clearing its throat. Windows vibrated gently. A cat fell over for no reason and pretended it meant to do that.
Then the music started.
A lute string rang out from nowhere and everywhere at once, followed by a voice singing confidently in a language that sounded familiar but refused to be identified.
Tralalero had arrived.
He stood atop a fountain that had not worked in years, strumming his instrument with passion and absolutely no awareness of consequences. His hat feather vibrated violently, clearly enjoying itself.
"Oh no," someone said. "Not him."
The song caused the street to curve slightly.
People leaned instinctively, correcting for geography that had not been this demanding before.
"Stop singing!" a woman shouted.
"I can't!" Tralalero shouted back cheerfully. "It's the chorus!"
"What's the song about?"
"I don't know!" he said. "It started before I did!"
Tung Tung Sahur looked at Tralalero.
Tralalero missed a note.
The air pulsed.
Somewhere behind them, a deep rhythmic vibration began. No one noticed at first. They were too busy holding onto objects that had begun to feel emotional.
A bench shuddered.
A lamppost hummed along.
Patapim had joined the situation.
Nobody invited him. Nobody ever did.
By the time the authorities arrived, nobody agreed on what the problem was.
"It's a noise complaint," said the first official.
"It's a time violation," said the second.
"It's a feeling," said the third, who was new and already regretting it.
They approached Tung Tung Sahur cautiously.
"Sir," the first official said, consulting a clipboard that was vibrating too much to read. "Are you responsible for the current… situation?"
Tung Tung Sahur considered this.
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then said, "Hmm."
The officials wrote this down.
"That settles it," the first said. "We'll need to detain him."
"For what?" asked the second.
"We'll decide later," the first replied. "That's how these things work."
As they reached for Tung Tung Sahur, the hum intensified. Patapim's presence became undeniable. The ground vibrated rhythmically, like it was trying to remember a song it hated.
Tralalero struck a final chord.
Everything paused.
The sky flickered.
Then, somewhere deep in the structure of reality, something coughed.
A clock tower rang out.
Once.
Twice.
Then struck 25:00.
Everyone looked up.
Nobody laughed.
Nobody screamed.
They simply accepted that this was now part of their day.
Tung Tung Sahur adjusted his grip on the bat.
The night remained.
And the morning, wherever it was, pretended not to notice.