Naina stood at her mother's modest grave in Greenwood Haven Cemetery, a small, unassuming burial ground tucked between two quiet streets in Brooklyn. She wore snow boots, jeans, and her oversized puffer jacket, with her hair pulled into a bun and a headband around her head to keep the frizz at bay.

The cemetery was bordered by a rusted iron fence, its once-black paint now flaking to reveal bare metal beneath. Patches of wild grass and weeds peeked out from beneath the melting snow, their defiance a contrast to the neatly arranged headstones.

The air was crisp and still. It was quiet, except for the occasional sound of a car honking in the distance or a stray dog barking—Brooklyn's way of reminding you it was never truly silent. Still, for a moment, the cemetery felt like a world apart from the chaos just beyond its gates...

Naina didn't have much of a childhood. She could still hear her mother's voice, slurred and angry, echoing through the small, cramped apartment they once shared. "Naina, bring me another drink!" she'd shout, her clothes barely clinging to her as she stumbled in from yet another grueling shift at the old tavern down the street. Naina, barely eleven years old, would hesitate, hoping against hope that her mother might forget the demand. Sometimes, she'd lie and say there was nothing left in the fridge, praying it would end there. But it never did. Her mother would search, find something harder, and lash out at Naina for trying to deceive her. She could still feel the sting of those slaps.

The rustling of the oak tree overhead broke through her dark thoughts, pulling her back to the present.

She blinked, staring down at her mother's grave. It was marked by a simple headstone of gray stone, engraved with Paula McHenry, Beloved Mother, 1969–2024. A small bouquet of wilted flowers, placed by Naina weeks ago, leaned against the base, their petals browned by the winter frost.

She took a deep, trembling sigh. Her mother's death was no accident. Paula had overdosed on a dangerous mix of medications, leaving Naina in the wake of an insane, chaotic 48 hours spent in the hospital and answering endless questions from cops trying to piece together what had happened.

What Naina had told no one about it—not even Yousef or Safa.

It wasn't just the overdose, either. It was years of self-destruction, despair, and pain that had culminated in that final, tragic moment. But Naina had no interest in sharing her tragic life with anyone. It wasn't something she wanted pity for, nor did she want anyone to look at her like she was broken.

As she turned to leave, Naina noticed a young man standing solemnly at a nearby grave. He had beautiful, sad hazel eyes that seemed to hold the weight of unspoken pain. He was maybe 5'10, with longer dark brown hair that curled slightly at the edges. His fair skin and sharp features—a strong jawline and high cheekbones—gave him an air of quiet elegance.

His face was youthful, making his age hard to place, but his impeccable attire lent him an air of maturity—a long, tailored peacoat, perfectly pressed slacks, and polished black leather shoes that seemed out of place against the uneven, frost-covered ground.

What struck her most, though, was the sadness on his face. His brilliant eyes shimmered with tears, and the tight press of his lips hinted at unspoken pain. There was something almost otherworldly about him, as if he carried a weight that set him apart from the world around them.

She couldn't help but be captivated by the quiet sorrow radiating from him.

He finally looked up and noticed her. A bit startled, he quickly wiped away the tears. "Hello," he said, his voice carrying a slight accent—Indian, she assumed. "I'm Samir. Samir Khan." He extended his hand.

"Hi, I'm Naina," she replied, shaking it.

He studied her face for a moment. "Are you Indian?"

She let out a soft laugh, thinking about how Yousef was always trying to figure out the same thing.

"I'm from here—Brooklyn," she said with a shrug.

"Oh," he said, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. "I live in the Upper East Side now, but I'm originally from Bombay—well, Mumbai, I guess they call it now."

"Oh. You've come a long way, Samir," she said, with intrigue.

He nodded and turned back to the grave, his sadness creeping back in.

"Who's buried here?" Naina asked, her eyes flicking to the headstone. She noticed it was marked Saima Khan. For a moment, she hoped it wasn't an ex-girlfriend. He was handsome, but she wasn't interested in someone with a lot of baggage. She had enough of her own.

"My dadi," he said, clearing his throat. "My father's mother," he explained, noticing her confusion over the term.

He is sweet, she thought to herself. "That's terribly sad," Naina said, biting her lip. "When did she pass?"

"Three years ago," he replied, his voice faltering. "I couldn't visit her when she was sick because... well, there were some issues between my mom and her." His voice hitched slightly.

Naina nodded. She understood better than most how complicated family could be.

"Who are you visiting?"

"My mother," Naina said, glancing toward her grave. "She died last year. Today's her death anniversary."

"Oh," Samir said, looking down. "I'm so sorry. May she rest in peace."

Naina said nothing, staring at the headstone. She couldn't imagine how her mother could ever be resting or in peace, not after the way she had lived—or died.

Then, breaking the silence, Samir spoke. "It's Sunday," he said, stating the obvious. "If you're free, maybe we can grab a coffee nearby?"

Naina hesitated, caught off guard. But she was flattered—he clearly found her interesting, maybe even attractive.

"Sure," she said, then raised an eyebrow. "But wouldn't your girlfriend mind?"

"Girlfriend?" He let out a laugh. "I don't have one of those—not anymore." He smiled, dashing and unbothered.

"My boyfriend won't mind either," she quipped.

His eyes widened, startled.

"Joke," she clarified, smirking as she turned and started walking.

They strolled for about ten blocks, chatting as they walked. Samir shared how he had moved back to New York after nearly ten years in India. They laughed about how bitterly cold the city felt compared to Mumbai. Eventually, they arrived at her favorite coffee shop, a cozy little spot called Floral & Bean.

The cafe was a stark contrast to the snowy world outside. Inside, the air was warm and filled with the rich aromas of freshly brewed coffee, chocolate, and a hint of vanilla. The walls were painted a soft sage green and decorated with vibrant floral murals. Strings of warm fairy lights hung from the ceiling, intertwined with fake vines. Small wooden tables were scattered throughout, most adorned with tiny vases holding fresh daisies or roses.

The place was lively but not overwhelming. Baristas called out orders over the sound of various conversations and the occasional clang of mugs being placed on counters. A faint tune from an African inspired playlist played in the background.

At the counter, Naina ordered herself an oat milk latte and turned to Samir. "What do you want?"

"What's good here?" he asked, glancing at the menu.

"Their mocha," she replied without hesitation. "It's the best in Brooklyn."

"That sounds perfect," he said with a small smile.

They found a table near the window, where the warmth of the cafe clashed pleasantly with the snow-dusted, slushy streets and the gritty, gray world beyond.

"So," Naina said, leaning back in her chair. "You mentioned you don't have a girlfriend anymore. What happened?"

Samir took a sip of his mocha latte, his gaze fixed sternly on the window. "Well... she got married."

Naina blinked, caught off guard. She hesitated, unsure of what to say, but before she could respond, he added:

"To my best friend."

Her eyes widened in disbelief. "Oh," she managed. She wasn't sure if she should say sorry or just let the silence speak for itself.

He shook his head, but there was sadness in his eyes. "It's behind me now. It was well over a year ago."

"So, what do you do?" she asked, eager to change the subject.

"My father runs an import-export company called IndoTrans Global Exports. We deal in textiles, spices, and other goods between India and the U.S.," he said, a bit nervously, avoiding eye contact. "I've just started managing the New York operations."

"IndoTrans Global?" Naina asked, her eyebrows shooting up. "They're on the news all the time."

She immediately pegged him as some rich trust fund guy, probably a self-absorbed Upper East Side playboy. What a waste of her time, she thought bitterly.

"Yeah, anyway," he said, seeming almost bashful, shifting his focus back to her. "What do you do?"

Naina was caught off guard by the question. "I'm—" she started, considering spinning a lie. But then she sighed and said, "I'm a bartender at the Amber Room in SoHo."

"Huh," he said simply, taking another sip of his drink. There was no judgment, no follow-up, just quiet curiosity.

That made Naina nervous.

"Listen, I gotta go," Naina said abruptly, standing up.

She was entirely uncomfortable with the kindness in his eyes, unwilling to believe it was genuine. It had to be a front—some rich guy charm meant to reel her in. She didn't want to be his next conquest. Part of her even wondered if he was lying about his dadi.

"Nice to meet you, Samir," she said curtly, grabbing her bag.

"Wait, where are you going?" he called after her, getting up from his seat. "Naina, I'd like to see you again."

I'm sure you would, she thought bitterly, brushing past him without a word. She pushed the cafe door open and rushed out into the snowy streets, her heart pounding with frustration and unease.