Rafiq spends his days documenting buried layers of Cairo — Ottoman drains humming beneath Nasser-era flats, Fatimid foundations trembling below luxury boutiques selling faux authenticity. He films crumbling cornices with reverence, narrating histories erased by gentrification with a whisper-thick voice recorded straight to mini-disc players tucked in trench pockets. But nights belong to another excavation entirely: chasing echoes of connection along alleyways where jasmine spills over wrought iron balconies and tram wires hum Arabic scales.He fell in love once beneath scaffolding meant to demolish a 1927 cinema now housing bank ATMs, watching her laugh mid-sentence until police scattered them. That rupture taught him preservation requires stealth — so now he builds sanctuaries unseen. His favorite date spot isn’t listed anywhere: an abandoned service stairwell leading down to a disused dock on Zamalek Island, strung with solar-powered lanterns salvaged from shuttered souks. There, between creaking moored feluccas and drifting lotus blooms, he cooks molokhia stew on a camp burner flavored exactly like his grandmother used to make — green fire simmered in garlic oil, served with thick peasant bread still hot from overnight ovens.His way of saying I want you is handing someone salt-crusted earphones playing field recordings of rainfall over Siwa Oasis circa ’89. Desire lives in duration for Rafiq — lingering kneading hands washing sand out of cotton shirts post-dig site, guiding fingertips learning spine curves like Braille inscriptions, extended silences weighted more than vows. Sexuality manifests gently here: kissing temple wounds first thing at dawn because trauma deserves tenderness before tongues meet; asking permission every single time skin crosses threshold into sweat.Every morning since she vanished from his bed three winters ago, he takes one Polaroid facing east toward the rising haze over Maadi bridges — then hides it beside others taped behind loose tiles in his kitchen wall. On thunderless nights, he replays voicemail fragments clipped together from late-train commutes:xa0*a deep inhale*xa0I think… maybe tomorrow could mean something again.