Rain lashes against the window of a small, brightly lit cafe. Inside, a woman with tired eyes and a perpetually damp scarf sits nursing a lukewarm cup of tea. Across from her, an empty chair. She traces patterns on the condensation with her finger, occasionally glancing at the door, a faint, hopeful flicker in her gaze. The cafe is bustling with couples and friends, their laughter a muted hum against the drumming rain, but she remains isolated in her quiet vigil, a single, wilting rose lying forgotten on the table beside her. The street outside is blurred and indistinct, reflecting the hazy uncertainty in her expression.