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The woman at the next table ordered her cortado in perfect Catalan, but her hands were shaking. I...
The man at table seven ordered the same coffee every Tuesday for three years. Cortado. No sugar....
The woman at table seven orders her coffee the same way every Tuesday — cortado, no sugar, cold...
The woman at table three orders the same thing every Tuesday: café amb llet, no sugar, and a glass...
The old man was reading her book. She noticed it on the Rambla del Poblenou—the battered yellow...
The woman at the café table was folding napkins into origami cranes. One after another, her fingers moved with practiced precision while her espresso went cold.
I watched from the bar, waiting for my cortado. She must have made twenty by the time the barista called my name.
I took my coffee to the table next to hers. Close enough to see that each crane was slightly different—some with bent wings, others with crooked beaks. She lined them up on the marble tabletop like a paper flock preparing for migration.
"They're for my daughter," she said, not looking up. Her Spanish carried a French accent. "She used to make them. Before."
I didn't ask before what. The way she said it closed the door on questions.
She finished another crane and set it down. "Sixty-three," she said. "That's how many days."
"Since she—"
"Since she stopped speaking." The woman finally looked at me. Her eyes were lighter than I expected, almost translucent in the afternoon sun slanting through the window. "She's seven. The doctors say there's nothing wrong. Physically."
I sipped my coffee, searching for something to say that wouldn't be a platitude.
"I make one for every day she's been silent," the woman continued. "When she speaks again, we'll unfold them all together." She picked up the nearest crane and held it up to the light. "Do you think paper remembers being a tree?"
The question caught me off guard. "I don't know."
"I think it does." She set the crane back down with the others. "I think everything remembers what it used to be."
She stood then, gathering the cranes carefully into her bag. All except one, which she left on my table.
"For luck," she said, and walked out into the narrow Gothic Quarter street.
I sat there long after my coffee went cold, watching that paper bird. Its head was tilted at an odd angle, as if listening for something just beyond hearing.
When I finally left, I brought it with me. Some things, I decided, shouldn't be abandoned to forgetfulness.
#flashfiction #Barcelona #silence #motherhood
