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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.