The late afternoon sun, a hazy orange, slanted across a small, cluttered balcony overlooking a bustling marketplace. He was meticulously arranging jasmine garlands, each bloom carefully placed, a slight furrow in his brow. She stood just inside the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching him. Her hands were clasped loosely in front of her, and a gentle smile played on her lips – a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was a polite, almost practiced smile, the kind offered to a familiar face you no longer truly see. He didn’t look up, completely absorbed in his task, the scent of jasmine filling the air between them. A single, vibrant marigold had fallen from the garland and lay on the worn stone floor. She noticed it, but didn’t point it out. The sounds of the marketplace – hawkers calling, children laughing, the distant rumble of a scooter – faded into a quiet hum, a backdrop to the unspoken weight in the room.