The steam from the black coffee rose in a jagged, translucent swirl, a ghost of heat against the sharpening chill of the Dehradun morning. It was a bitter brew, the kind that stained the teeth and anchored the soul, yet today, its acidity felt distant, as if he were tasting a memory of coffee rather than the liquid itself. On the terrace, the air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the impending petrichor of the Mussoorie hills. The clouds were thick, bruised swells of indigo and slate, huddling together over the peaks like a congregation of mourners. He moved among the pots with a rhythmic, practiced tenderness. The bougainvillea was thirsty; the ferns needed a gentle misting. Around his ankles, the cats—a shifting mosaic of calico and shadow—weaved in silent, desperate anticipation. Their mews were sharp, needle-thin sounds that usually pierced his morning fog, but today they sounded muffled, as if he were listening to them through a thick pane of glass. He turned towards the ...
