One night, when the old cassette finally stilled—its tape frayed like a dried petal—Armaan and Meera arranged a small ceremony on the rooftop. They lit a single clay lamp and set the cassette beside it, not to destroy but to honor. They sang the refrains from memory, imperfect and human. The melody carried down their narrow lane, past the grocery, the tea stall, the sleeping cows, and into the city’s slow heart.
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