The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving the cobblestone courtyard slick and reflecting the pale glow of the single gas lamp. She sat on the worn steps of the old haveli, a shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, though the chill wasn’t entirely what made her shiver. The scent of jasmine, impossibly strong for this late in the season, drifted from the overgrown garden, a phantom fragrance clinging to the damp air. Across the courtyard, the windows of his room were dark, silent. She’d been there for hours, watching, hoping for a sign, a light, anything. A single, fallen rose petal lay at her feet, bruised and damp, mirroring the ache in her chest. The silence was thick, heavy, punctuated only by the drip, drip, drip of water from the eaves, each drop a tiny hammer blow against the fragile hope she desperately clung to.