"But she kept painting him," Reyansh said.

Reyansh arrived early. He saw her from behind—hair in a messy bun, jeans paint-stained, earbuds in. She was singing under her breath. The same line.

He froze. The gallery smelled of turpentine and old wood. The afternoon light fell across her face as she turned.

"Into every canvas for 50 years. Same face. Same eyes." Meera looked at him. "Funny thing. You have his eyes."

"That makes zero sense," Reyansh whispered.

They decided to meet at a rundown art gallery in Bandra where Meera was restoring a faded mural of two lovers from a forgotten film.