The monsoon rain has just stopped, leaving the air thick and heavy with the scent of wet earth and jasmine. She sits on the veranda of a small, slightly crumbling haveli, a chipped porcelain cup of chai warming her hands. The light is fading, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges. Across the courtyard, a lone, ancient mango tree drips with water, its leaves shimmering. She’s meticulously folding a letter, the paper thin and cream-colored, her fingers tracing the edges with a quiet tenderness. Her gaze drifts to the distant hills, blurred by the lingering mist, a faint, melancholic smile playing on her lips. A single, vibrant hibiscus flower lies discarded on the stone floor beside her, its petals already starting to curl.