The old man was reading her book.
She noticed it on the Rambla del Poblenou—the battered yellow cover, the dog-eared corner she'd folded herself at page 47 because she'd run out of bookmarks that day in the airport, three years ago. She'd sold the copy to a second-hand shop on Carrer dels Tallers when she moved flats. She remembered this the way you remember forgetting to water a plant.
He read with his whole face. His lips moved faintly. Not a man who'd learned to hide his reactions.