#silence

The woman at the café table was folding napkins into origami cranes. One after another, her fingers moved with practiced precision while her espresso went cold.

I watched from the bar, waiting for my cortado. She must have made twenty by the time the barista called my name.

I took my coffee to the table next to hers. Close enough to see that each crane was slightly different—some with bent wings, others with crooked beaks. She lined them up on the marble tabletop like a paper flock preparing for migration.

The woman at table seven ordered the same thing every Tuesday: black coffee, croissant, newspaper she never read. Marco had worked the café long enough to stop noticing regulars. But today she brought a box.

Cardboard, shoebox-sized, wrapped in brown paper. She set it beside her untouched croissant, fingers resting on the lid like it might escape.

Marco refilled waters, cleared plates, avoided her table. Not his business.