The rain is a relentless, grey curtain blurring the edges of the old haveli. Inside, a single lamp casts a pool of amber light on a worn Persian rug. A woman, her face etched with a quiet sorrow, meticulously arranges jasmine blossoms in a silver vase. Her hands move with a practiced grace, but her gaze is fixed on the courtyard beyond, where a figure – silhouetted against the downpour – stands motionless. He’s holding a single, wilting rose. The air hangs heavy with unspoken words, the scent of jasmine battling with the dampness of the rain, and the palpable weight of a love that has long since fractured.