Rain streaks down the window of a small, cluttered tailor’s shop. Inside, an elderly man with tired eyes meticulously threads a needle, his hands moving with a practiced, almost mournful grace. He’s hunched over a half-finished wedding lehenga, the vibrant red fabric a stark contrast to the grey light filtering through the rain. A faded photograph sits propped against a spool of thread – a young woman in a similar lehenga, laughing, her arm linked with his. He pauses, his fingers still on the needle, and stares at the picture for a long moment, a single tear tracing a path down his weathered cheek, disappearing into his white beard. The rhythmic ticking of an old clock on the wall is the only sound besides the drumming rain.