You cannot answer her.
Your mouth has gone dry. The world keeps moving around you in a blur of engines, hawkers, heat, and footsteps, but inside you something ancient has stood up. Not a memory exactly. Something more dangerous than memory. Recognition.
When you step closer, the woman looks up with the guarded weariness of someone who has been disappointed by strangers too many times to expect mercy from another one.
“¿Cómo se llama usted?” you ask.
Her eyes narrow, not with fear, but confusion. Men in tailored suits do not kneel in the dust to ask beggars their names. Men like you are usually the kind she begs from and loses.
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