The rain was relentless, blurring the neon glow of the restaurant across the street. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cardamom and simmering butter chicken. She sat rigidly at a corner booth, the plush velvet feeling strangely cold against her skin. Her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, were adorned with a single, antique emerald ring – a silent, glittering testament to a promise made years ago. He was late. Again. She’d ordered a single cup of chai, the steam curling around her face, mirroring the anxious swirl in her stomach. Every time the door chimed, her head snapped up, a flicker of hope quickly extinguished as someone else hurried in, shaking off the rain. The waiter, a young man with kind eyes, offered a hesitant refill, but she barely registered him. Her gaze remained fixed on the entrance, a fragile, unwavering vigil in the warm, bustling space.