The late afternoon sun bled orange and purple across the dusty courtyard of a crumbling haveli. A lone figure, a man in a faded, cream-colored sherwani, sat cross-legged on the worn stone steps. He held a single, wilting jasmine flower in his hand, turning it slowly, almost reverently. The courtyard was overgrown with weeds, the fountain dry and cracked, the once vibrant frescoes peeling from the walls. He wasn’t looking at the flower, but at a darkened window on the second floor, a window he knew she used to look out of. A faint breeze stirred the dust, carrying the scent of distant rain and a lingering, almost ghostly, fragrance of sandalwood and roses. He hadn’t moved in hours, his gaze fixed, his posture radiating a profound, quiet despair. A single tear traced a path down his weathered cheek, disappearing into the stubble of his beard.