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The woman at the corner table ordered her coffee the same way every morning: cortado, sin azúcar. She always sat facing the door, her phone positioned precisely to the left of her cup, screen dark.
I noticed her hands first. Not because they were remarkable, but because of what they did—or rather, what they didn't do. For twenty minutes each day, they remained still. Folded. Waiting.
Today, the rain drummed against the café windows, and Las Ramblas outside blurred into streaks of umbrellas and tourist ponchos. She arrived at 9:47, three minutes later than usual. Her hair was damp at the edges.