The rain is a relentless curtain against the windowpane. Inside, the room is dimly lit by a single, flickering lamp, casting long, dancing shadows across the worn Persian rug. He sits slumped in a velvet armchair, a half-finished glass of amber liquid resting on the small table beside him. His tie is loosened, his collar undone, and his hair is disheveled. He stares blankly at the swirling patterns in the rug, a faint, melancholic smile playing on his lips. A photograph lies face down on the table – a woman’s laughing face, now obscured. He doesn’t reach for it. The air is thick with the scent of old books, rain, and a lingering, unspoken regret. He seems utterly lost, adrift in a sea of memory, yet strangely, almost peacefully, still.