The woman at the corner table ordered her coffee the same way every morning: cortado, sin azúcar. She always sat facing the door, her phone positioned precisely to the left of her cup, screen dark.

I noticed her hands first. Not because they were remarkable, but because of what they did—or rather, what they didn't do. For twenty minutes each day, they remained still. Folded. Waiting.

Today, the rain drummed against the café windows, and Las Ramblas outside blurred into streaks of umbrellas and tourist ponchos. She arrived at 9:47, three minutes later than usual. Her hair was damp at the edges.

She ordered. She sat. She folded her hands.

But this time, she also withdrew something from her bag—a postcard. Old, creased at one corner. The image faced down, but I caught a glimpse: the Sagrada Família at sunset, the spires burning orange.

She turned it over. Read whatever was written there. Her lips moved silently, the way people do when they're memorizing or remembering.

Then her phone buzzed.

She looked at it. Her face didn't change, but her shoulders did—a small collapse, like a held breath finally released. She typed something brief. Put the phone down. Picked up the postcard again.

A man in a wet jacket pushed through the door, scanning the room. For a moment, I thought—

But she didn't look up.

He ordered at the counter, complained about the rain in broken Spanish, left.

She slid the postcard back into her bag. Finished her coffee in three deliberate sips. Placed exact coins on the table.

At the door, she paused. Her hand on the frame, she glanced back at her empty seat—not at it, really, but through it. At something or someone not there.

Then she stepped into the rain.

I thought about the postcard. The words I'd never read. The person who'd sent it—or hadn't. The ones we wait for, long after we know they're not coming.

Her cortado sat on the counter the next morning at 9:44, steam rising.

She never walked through the door.

#flashfiction #Barcelona #waitingroom #unseenstories