The next morning, Rahul woke to sunlight on his face. He made coffee, opened the window, and heard the city stir back to life. He hadn’t messaged Meera. He hadn’t solved anything. But he’d survived yarum illa neram —that unclaimed hour—and stepped into the daylight, still standing.

He put the phone down.

No answer. Of course.

Instead, he walked to the balcony. The streetlight cast a lonely orange pool on the empty road. A stray cat meowed once, then vanished. Rahul leaned on the railing and whispered into the dark: “Yaarum illa neram… ithu yaarum illa neram.”

Yarum illa neram —the time when no one is around. The hour loneliness stops being a visitor and becomes a tenant.

He scrolled through his call log. His thumb hovered over her name. What would I even say? “Hi, I can’t sleep?” “Remember that song?” “Do you ever feel this too?”