The rain had stopped, leaving a sheen on the Kolkata pavement. He sat on the steps of the Victoria Memorial, meticulously polishing a pair of worn leather shoes. The gesture was slow, almost ritualistic, his movements deliberate and quiet. Across the wide, glistening expanse of Maidan, a group of children were chasing pigeons, their laughter echoing faintly. He didn’t look at them. His gaze was fixed on the reflection of the memorial in the wet stone, a distorted image of grandeur. A single, wilting jasmine flower lay pressed between the pages of a book resting beside him – a book of poetry, its spine cracked and faded. He paused, his hand still holding the polishing cloth, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It wasn’t a happy smile, not exactly. More like a quiet acknowledgement of something lost, something remembered, something… accepted. The city hummed around him, oblivious to the stillness radiating from the man on the steps.