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The next evening, he plugged the drive into the TV. The opening credits rolled—the sound of rain, the title appearing in a soft blue font. His mother clutched his hand. Her grip was weak from the surgery, but it was warm. For two hours, they sat in the dark, the rain from the movie filling the room.

Who is this?

Rohan’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. He glanced at his antivirus. It was silent. He typed back.

The cursor blinked on the empty search bar, a tiny white beacon in the dim glow of the bedroom. Rohan stared at it, the weight of a long week pressing down on his shoulders. His mother, recovering from surgery, had asked him a simple favor: "Find that old Kannada movie, Mungaru Male . Your father and I watched it on our first anniversary."

He clicked.

Rohan froze. He hadn't given his name. He looked around the dark room. The cursor in the chat box blinked patiently.

"Did you watch Mungaru Male that year?" he asked.

She hummed a few bars. Rohan had heard the song a hundred times in remixes and ringtones, but hearing it from her throat, fragile and true, was different.