Rain streaks down the window of a late-night Mumbai cafe, blurring the neon lights of the street outside. He’s nursing a lukewarm chai, the steam doing little to warm his hands. Across from him, the table is empty, littered with the remnants of a hurried meal. He keeps glancing at the door, a nervous energy radiating from him despite his attempts to appear nonchalant. He runs a hand through his already damp hair, the gesture repeated several times. The cafe is mostly empty, just a few solitary figures lost in their own thoughts. He checks his phone again, the screen reflecting the anxious flicker in his eyes. A single, wilting rose sits in a vase on the table, a silent, forgotten promise.