The rain had stopped, leaving the air thick and heavy with the scent of wet jasmine and damp earth. She stood on the balcony of a crumbling haveli, the chipped paint flaking off under her fingertips. Below, the courtyard was deserted, the fountain silent, its stone basin slick with rainwater. Her silk dupatta, the color of faded saffron, clung to her shoulders. She wasn’t looking at the courtyard, though. Her gaze was fixed on the distant, blurred hills, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek, catching the last vestiges of the setting sun. A half-finished cup of cardamom tea sat forgotten on the marble floor beside her, its steam long dissipated. The silence was profound, broken only by the occasional drip of water from the eaves, a slow, mournful rhythm echoing the ache in her heart.