Rain streaks down the window of a bustling Karachi chai stall, blurring the neon signs outside. Inside, a young woman with tired eyes and a vibrant, hand-painted dupatta nervously stirs sugar into her milky tea. Across from her, a man with kind eyes and a worn leather briefcase watches her, a gentle smile playing on his lips. He’s been telling a story, a rambling anecdote about a childhood cricket match, but she’s barely heard a word. Her gaze keeps drifting to the doorway, a flicker of hope and anxiety in her expression. The air is thick with the scent of cardamom and damp concrete, and the constant hum of traffic feels both suffocating and strangely comforting. She reaches out, almost touching his hand, then pulls back, her fingers tightening around the chipped ceramic cup.