#strangers

The coffee cup was chipped on the rim. Emma noticed it before the woman sat down.

"Is anyone—?"

"No, please." Emma moved her bag.

The bus stop bench wore someone else's warmth. Maria sat down anyway, pulling her coat tighter against the December wind. Beside her, a man muttered into his phone—

I'm not coming home, Carmen. I can't.

She looked away, studied the graffiti on the shelter wall. A heart with no names. Just the outline.

The coffee shop queue moved with the sluggish rhythm of a Tuesday morning, each customer clutching their phones like prayer beads. I watched the woman ahead of me—silver hair escaped from a careful bun, fingers drumming against her leather purse.

When she reached the counter, she ordered in hesitant English: "One cortado, please. And..." Her voice faltered. "Do you have anything sweet? Something small?"

The barista, barely twenty with paint-stained fingertips, smiled. "We have these amazing chocolate croissants. My grandmother's recipe."