She was mapping your life.
The bus jolts over a pothole, and your fingers tighten around your purse. You remember Eduardo’s face at Roberto’s funeral—how dry his eyes were, how impatient he seemed with grief, as though sorrow were just an inconvenience delaying other plans. He hugged you, but his arms stayed stiff. Later, while neighbors carried trays of food into your kitchen, you caught him studying the framed photo of your beach house with the same look men use when inspecting property they plan to buy cheap and flip fast.
You ignored it then.
Widowhood makes everything feel foggy.
By the time you reach your stop, the sun has dropped lower, bathing the street in dusty gold. Your house looks exactly the same from the outside: the small front garden Roberto trimmed every Saturday, the blue shutters that need repainting, the wind chime by the porch he once brought home from a roadside market because he said it sounded like laughter. You pause at the gate before opening it, and the stillness of the place wraps around you like a question.
