Anjum, twenty-four, kept two things on her person: an old cinema ticket stub and a stubborn curiosity. She ran the tea shop after her father’s hands, which trembled with arthritis but still remembered how to brew proper masala. People bought tea and gossip in equal measures, and Anjum listened like a seamstress, piecing stories together. When the radio said Filmyzilla was coming to Pathiraa, she folded the ticket between recipe notes and decided she would meet whatever came.