#briefencounters

The coffee in the window had stopped steaming by the time she noticed it.

María watched from across the narrow street, tucked into the shadow of a Gothic archway. She'd been standing there for eleven minutes—she knew because she'd checked her phone twice, though not to see the time. To see if he'd messaged. He hadn't.

The coffee sat on the windowsill of apartment 3B, exactly where Jordi used to leave hers when they lived together. Same blue ceramic mug with the chipped rim. Same placement, centered precisely between the wrought iron bars. But Jordi didn't live there anymore. She did. Or someone did.

The café terrace was closing when she noticed the book. Not her book—she'd left hers at home. This one sat propped against the sugar bowl at the next table, spine bent backward, pages fluttering in the evening breeze.

She glanced around. The table's only occupant had left minutes ago, a woman in a green coat who'd checked her phone seventeen times. She'd counted.

The book was a cheap paperback, dog-eared and sun-faded. The Remains of the Day. Someone had underlined a passage in blue ink: "We can't be forever dwelling on the might-have-beens."