The woman at table three orders the same thing every Tuesday: café amb llet, no sugar, and a glass of water she never drinks.

Marina has watched her for six weeks now. She knows the way the woman sets her phone face-down before she even sits, the precise fold of her jacket over the chair back, the small sigh that escapes when she opens her notebook. A ritual. A small, serious ceremony.

Today a man stops at her table.

Marina pretends to wipe the counter.

He is tall, maybe fifty, with the careful posture of someone who once wore a uniform. He says something. The woman looks up. For a moment, neither of them moves—frozen, Marina thinks, like a photograph of a thing that hasn't happened yet.

Then the woman laughs.

It is not the laugh Marina expected. It is not polite or surprised or nervous. It is full, unguarded, the laugh of someone who forgot they knew how. The man sits down without being invited. He takes the glass of water and drinks half of it.

They talk for twenty minutes. Marina catches fragments—a street name, a year, you were the one who, I always thought—but the meaning slips past her like water around stones.

When he leaves, he doesn't look back.

The woman sits for a long moment, her pen resting unused across the open notebook. Marina brings her a second coffee without being asked. The woman looks up, and something in her face is different. Rearranged.

Old friend? Marina asks.

The woman shakes her head slowly. Someone I almost knew, she says. A long time ago.

She pays, folds her jacket over her arm this time instead of the chair, and walks out into the narrow street where the August light falls sharp between the old stones.

Marina picks up the notebook she left behind.

It is empty. Every page, blank.

She sets it on the shelf behind the counter. Next Tuesday, she tells herself. She'll return it next Tuesday.

But she already knows: the woman won't come back.

#flashfiction #Barcelona #strangers #momentos