Raghav didn’t sleep. He made instant coffee, pulled a blanket over his shoulders, and opened the file. The first frame was grainy, slightly over-compressed. But when the first note of the Bismil instrumental hummed through his cheap earphones, something cracked in his chest.

“Ma,” he said, voice hoarse. “Tell me about the time we visited Gulmarg. I was seven. I think I forgot.”

“Beta? It’s early. Everything okay?”

There was a pause. Then her voice softened. “You cried because the horse was cold. You wanted to give it your sweater.”