Rain streaks down the windowpane of a sparsely furnished room, blurring the city lights outside. A single, bare bulb casts a weak yellow glow on a woman meticulously folding a silk scarf, the color of faded roses. Her hands move with a practiced, almost ritualistic slowness, each fold precise and deliberate. She’s surrounded by half-packed suitcases, their contents spilling out – photographs, a worn leather-bound journal, a single, dried flower pressed between the pages of a poetry book. Her gaze is fixed on the scarf, but her eyes are distant, filled with a quiet, aching sadness. A half-finished cup of tea sits cold on a nearby table, a faint scent of cardamom lingering in the air. The only sound is the relentless drumming of the rain and the soft rustle of the silk as she folds, a tangible representation of memories being carefully, painfully contained.