Rain streaks down the window of a small, cluttered tailor’s shop. Inside, an elderly man sits hunched over a half-finished kurta, his fingers moving with a practiced, weary rhythm. The fabric is a vibrant emerald green, clearly intended for a wedding. He pauses, his hand hovering over a delicate embroidery pattern, and stares blankly at a faded photograph tucked into the corner of his workbench – a young woman in a similar green kurta, laughing. He gently touches the photo, a single tear tracing a path through the dust on his cheek, before returning to his work, the rhythmic click of the needle a lonely counterpoint to the drumming rain.