The rain is a relentless, grey curtain blurring the edges of the bustling marketplace. He stands just outside, beneath a threadbare awning, watching her. She’s laughing, her head thrown back, completely absorbed in the conversation with a younger man – a vibrant, confident artist sketching caricatures. The light catches the gold in her hair, a flash of a beauty he remembers intimately. He clutches a small, wilting bouquet of jasmine, bought with trembling hands earlier, now drooping in the dampness. He’d planned to offer them, to say something, anything. But the easy joy radiating from her, the way she leans into the artist’s words, the casual touch of her hand on his arm… it’s a chasm opening between them. He feels a familiar ache in his chest, a slow, sinking sensation as if the ground beneath him is giving way. He turns his face away, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead, and the scent of jasmine, once hopeful, now feels like a bitter mockery.