The humid Karachi night clings to everything. Neon signs bleed colours onto the rain-slicked street, reflecting in the puddles that gather around the overflowing drains. Inside a small, dimly lit chai stall, a woman with kohl-rimmed eyes meticulously arranges rose petals around a chipped porcelain cup. Across from her, a man in a faded shalwar kameez nervously drums his fingers on the table, his gaze fixed on the swirling steam rising from his tea. He keeps glancing towards the entrance, a flicker of hope and apprehension warring in his expression. The air is thick with unspoken words, the scent of cardamom and rain, and the low hum of distant traffic – a palpable tension hangs between them, a silent question mark suspended in the Karachi night.