He had smiled, but not completely.
That should have warned you.
The bus arrives with a hiss of brakes, and you climb aboard slowly, feeling every one of your seventy-one years in your knees. The driver lowers the step without being asked. You thank him and take a seat near the middle, your purse resting on your lap while the city drifts past the window in faded colors and fractured reflections.
Your mind keeps returning to Ángela’s voice.
Not shaky. Not apologetic. Not even hurried.
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