The watch was lying in the middle of Carrer del Bisbe, face-up, still ticking. Sara almost stepped on it during the lunch rush, tourists streaming past the Gothic bridge overhead. She picked it up—a man's watch, silver, the kind you inherit, not buy.
Someone is looking for this, she thought.
She waited at the corner. Five minutes became ten. People flowed around her like water around stone: a couple arguing in French, school children in uniform, a man selling roses. None of them stopped. None of them reached for their wrist in sudden panic.