It had been raining for days in Kolkata. The kind of grey, endless downpour that seeps into bones, thoughts, and memories. Ayan Roy, a 31-year-old software architect, sat at his window, watching the water bead against the glass. The street below was nearly empty, save for the occasional tram slicing through puddles and the distant echo of chaiwallahs shouting into the fog.That was when his phone vibrated — again.“Missed Call – +91 00000 00000”Time: 1:33 a.m.It was the sixth time this week. Same number. Same minute. No message. No voicemail. Just the missed call — like a whisper from the