The woman at the café counter ordered her cortado the same way every morning—extra hot, no sugar, ceramic cup. Marco had memorized this three weeks ago, but she still recited it fully, as if he might forget.

Today she added: "And a second one, please. Room temperature. To go."

He made both drinks, watching her in the mirror behind the espresso machine. She sat at her usual corner table, the untouched second cup in front of her, steam curling into nothing.

When he wiped down nearby tables, he heard her speaking softly. The chair across from her was empty.

"I know you hated my coffee," she said to the air. "You always said it tasted like I was trying to punish my tongue." A small laugh. "But you drank it anyway. Every Sunday."

Marco retreated behind the counter.

She came back the next Sunday. Ordered the same two cortados. Sat in the same spot.

The third Sunday, Marco placed her usual order in front of her before she could speak. Then he set down the second cup—extra hot this time, one sugar, ceramic—and met her eyes.

"My mother," he said quietly, "she died two years ago. I still make her breakfast sometimes. Burnt toast. She loved burnt toast." He shrugged. "It sounds insane when I say it out loud."

The woman's face changed. Not quite a smile. Something more like recognition.

"It's not insane," she said.

"No?"

"No. It's just what we do with the space people leave behind. We fill it the only way we know how."

Marco nodded and went back to the counter. She stayed longer than usual that morning, both cups empty by the time she left.

The following Sunday, she arrived at her regular time. She ordered one cortado. Extra hot, no sugar, ceramic cup.

But before she sat down, she paused. "Thank you," she said. "For the burnt toast."

Marco smiled. "Anytime."

She took her seat alone, the chair across from her tucked neatly back under the table.

#flashfiction #grief #Barcelona #strangers