Rain lashes against the window of a sparsely furnished apartment. He’s hunched over a worn wooden table, a single lamp illuminating the frantic scribbles covering a notebook. Empty chai cups and scattered papers surround him. Outside, the city lights blur through the downpour, reflecting in his dark, shadowed eyes. He’s tracing the outline of a photograph – a woman’s smiling face – with a trembling finger, a barely audible sigh escaping his lips. The room feels heavy, saturated with a quiet, aching longing. He keeps writing, erasing, writing again, as if trying to capture something intangible, something lost, on the page.