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Zoya adjusted the delicate gold bangles on her wrist as she walked through the bustling bazaar, the scent of rose attar and street side samosas lingering in the air. The evening sun cast long shadows over the cobbled lanes, turning the hanging lanterns into flickering constellations. Nearby, Rohan leaned against his motorcycle, a dog-eared poetry book in hand his usual spot under the neem tree. When their eyes met, he grinned and held up two cups of cutting chai, steam curling into the humid air.