The film opens on a frame that doesn’t show faces, only motion: palms brushing a train ticket, a thumb tracing a ticket number as if it were a prayer. Sound swells — a low tabla underscoring a synth that glows like a distant lighthouse — and we cut to a montage of small, obsessive details: a kettle boiling, a floor lamp left on until dawn, a bus route circled three times. Shiddat. Intensity that isn't loud; it’s the quiet insistence of returning calls, of memorizing the shape of someone’s laugh.