The envelope had been wedged between the radiator and the wall for who knows how long—yellowed, unsealed, addressed to this apartment but a different name. Jordi Salvat.
Ana turned it over in her hands. The handwriting was careful, each letter deliberate. She could have thrown it away. Should have, probably. Instead, she asked the woman at the bakery downstairs.
"Jordi? Sure, I remember him. Moved out maybe eight, nine years ago? Nice boy. Quiet." The woman wrapped Ana's bread in paper. "His mother still comes by sometimes. Lives on Carrer de la Mercè."