Each morning, Monsur stands by the barred window, shirtless and silent, letting the light trace the map of his years. Outside, laundry flutters like forgotten flags of youth. Inside, time lingers in the shadows. His fingers curl around rusted iron—not to escape, but to remember. The world beyond moves, but he remains: a witness to fading days, a body etched with memory, waiting for nothing, listening to everything.