Ira Devyani Sen It was the kind of evening that carried warmth on its skin — not from the sun, but from the longing that hung in the air like unspoken words. The rain had stopped just an hour ago, leaving behind a breathless hush. The windows were still misted, half open to the scent of soaked earth and hibiscus. She stood by the sill, fingers tracing the wooden frame, her saree a soft rustle of maroon and gold wrapped tightly around her curves, as if the fabric itself remembered touch. Down below, the courtyard glistened — bricks slick with…