The woman at the metro stop wore yellow gloves. Not winter gloves—thin latex ones, the kind you'd use for cleaning. She held a paper bag against her chest like a secret, and when the train doors opened, she didn't move.
Marcos stepped past her, found a seat by the window. Through his reflection he watched her remain on the platform as the train pulled away. He thought about those gloves for three stops.
At Diagonal he got off, doubled back. Took the next train going the opposite direction.
She was still there.
This time he stayed on the platform. Watched her let two more trains come and go, her grip on that bag never loosening. The gloves were bright against the dim tile, surgical and strange.
"Are you waiting for someone?" he finally asked.
She looked at him as if he'd spoken a language she'd forgotten she knew.
"I'm deciding," she said.
"Deciding what?"
She opened the bag just enough for him to see: a small urn, brushed aluminum, catching the fluorescent light.
"My mother wanted the sea," she said. "But I can't—I keep thinking if I scatter her, she'll be gone. Really gone." Her voice cracked on the last word. "These gloves, they're hers. From the hospital. I thought if I wore them, I could do it. But I just keep riding trains, trying to find the courage to go to the beach."
Marcos felt something in his chest give way. His own father's ashes sat in a closet in Gràcia, three years waiting.
"I'll go with you," he heard himself say.
She studied his face, searching for sincerity or pity. Found something else—recognition.
"You don't know me," she whispered.
"No," he agreed. "But I know this."
She nodded once, decisive. Slipped the urn back into the bag.
They took the L4 to Barceloneta. Didn't speak the whole way. Didn't need to.
At the beach, she removed the gloves carefully, folded them into her pocket. The wind took the ashes before she could second-guess, scattering them across the grey morning water.
Marcos waited until she turned away from the sea. Handed her his phone number on a torn metro ticket.
"When you're ready," he said. "I might need the same."
She held the scrap of paper in her bare hands. Nodded again.
Some strangers are only strange until the moment they're not.
#flashfiction #Barcelona #grief #connection