He had been a photographer who smelled of wet earth and audacity. He’d stolen her earphones on that bus, plugged one into his ear, and whispered, “This is our song now.” He didn’t ask. He simply decided. And Fiza, who had never let anyone decide anything for her, let him.

“Yes, you will,” she’d whispered, and hung up.

She never played the song again. She buried it in a folder inside a folder, like a body in an unmarked grave.

Now, in the present, the final notes of “Sun Saathiya” faded into static silence. The rain had stopped. Fiza touched her cheek—it was wet. She looked at the file size: 4.2 MB. A decade of grief, compressed into a few megabytes.