Rain lashes against the window of a small, brightly-lit chai stall. Inside, a woman sits hunched over a steaming cup, her shoulders shaking silently. She’s meticulously tracing patterns on the condensation with a fingertip, not really seeing them. Across from her, the chair is empty, a damp newspaper folded neatly on the seat. Outside, the neon sign of a nearby restaurant flickers, casting a distorted, melancholic glow on her face. She keeps glancing at the door, a flicker of hope – quickly extinguished – in her eyes with every passing car. The chai is untouched, growing cold. A single, wilting jasmine flower lies on the table beside her, a forgotten gift.