The woman at table seven ordered the same thing every Tuesday: black coffee, croissant, newspaper she never read. Marco had worked the café long enough to stop noticing regulars. But today she brought a box.
Cardboard, shoebox-sized, wrapped in brown paper. She set it beside her untouched croissant, fingers resting on the lid like it might escape.
Marco refilled waters, cleared plates, avoided her table. Not his business.
At noon, a man arrived. Fifties, gray suit, wedding ring that caught the light. He didn't order. Just sat across from her, hands folded on the marble table.
They didn't speak.
The box sat between them. The woman's fingers hadn't moved.
Marco wiped the espresso machine, watching through the reflection. The man's jaw worked like he was chewing words he couldn't swallow. The woman stared at the box.
Five minutes. Ten.
Finally, the man reached across the table. Not for the box—for her hand. She pulled away.
He stood. Dropped bills on the table. Walked out.
The woman sat with the box until her coffee went cold. When she finally opened it, Marco was close enough to see: a watch. Men's watch, leather strap, face cracked straight down the middle.
She held it to her ear like checking for a heartbeat.
Nothing.
She wrapped it back up, tucked the box under her arm, left the croissant untouched.
Marco cleared the table. Found a note folded under the saucer, her handwriting: "Some things stop but don't end."
He pocketed it. Not sure why.
That night, serving a couple their dessert, he watched them argue in whispers. The woman's engagement ring glinted as she gestured. The man looked at his phone.
Marco thought about the box. About stopped watches and cold coffee. About all the conversations happening in silence.
He brought them fresh spoons without being asked.
Sometimes that's all you can do.
#flashfiction #Barcelona #silence #untoldstories