The rain is relentless, a grey curtain blurring the edges of the bustling marketplace. A lone figure, a woman in a faded, silk sari the color of dried rose petals, sits hunched on the steps of a shuttered tea stall. Her hands, gnarled with age and work, clutch a small, chipped porcelain cup, long empty. Around her, vendors are packing up, their voices fading into the downpour. She doesn’t look at them. Her gaze is fixed on a distant point, somewhere beyond the crowded stalls and the shimmering wet streets, lost in a memory only she can see. A single, wilting jasmine flower, tucked behind her ear, clings desperately to its place. The scent, faint but poignant, mixes with the damp earth and the smell of rain. She occasionally wipes a tear with the back of her hand, a gesture so quiet it’s almost swallowed by the drumming rain.