Inside, the apartment is a museum of small cruelties and gentle salvations: a chipped teacup with a lipstick stain, a stack of schoolbooks with Meera’s margins crowded in tiny, neat handwriting, and a sweater with a moth’s path down the sleeve. Rafi calls for Meera, but the only answer is a photograph propped against a lamp: Meera smiling with a charcoal smudge on her cheek, frozen on a festival night years earlier.