The woman in the blue coat always ordered the same thing: cortado, no sugar, one glass of water. She sat at the corner table with a book she never seemed to finish—always page forty-three, always The Waves.
I watched her for three weeks before I understood she was waiting.
She arrived at 4:17 PM. Not 4:15, not 4:20. Exactly 4:17, as if punctuality itself was a kind of prayer. She would smooth the tablecloth, arrange her cup just so, and open the book to page forty-three.