Rain lashes against the panoramic windows of a grand, decaying hotel ballroom. Chandeliers, once glittering, are now dimmed and coated in dust, their crystals reflecting the grey light in fractured patterns. A lone woman, dressed in a faded, emerald green sari, sits at a table draped with a threadbare velvet cloth. Her hands, adorned with simple silver bangles, nervously twist a single, wilting jasmine flower. Across from her, the chair is empty. She keeps glancing at the ornate, double doors leading to the lobby, her eyes filled with a desperate hope that slowly bleeds into a quiet, aching resignation. The ballroom is silent save for the drumming rain and the occasional creak of the old building, amplifying the vast emptiness surrounding her. A single, flickering candle on her table casts long, dancing shadows, highlighting the lines of weariness etched on her face.