The muezzin's call to prayer, man... it echoes through the city. Every day, five times a day, a reminder. A reminder that sunset is coming, and with it, the promise of breaking fast. But what happens when the sun dips below the horizon, and the iftar table remains empty? When the hunger pangs gnaw at your belly, and the thirst claws at your throat, but there's nothing to break the fast with? It's a feeling of utter despair, like being trapped in a cage with no escape. The muezzin's call becomes a cruel taunt then, a mockery of your empty stomach. You yearn for that sweet taste of dates, the coolness of water on your parched lips, but it's all just a mirage. The iftar that never comes.