I placed it on the table beside the unpaid bill.
Then I walked away.
Outside, Madrid was wet with a fine autumn rain.
Cars passed over shining pavement. A bus sighed at the curb. Somewhere down the street, a couple laughed beneath a shared umbrella.
I stood beneath the restaurant awning, holding my ruined scarf.
And suddenly I couldn't breathe.
My chest tightened. My knees weakened.
I leaned against the stone wall.
The inspector, who had accompanied me outside, asked whether I needed medical assistance.
I nodded.
Not because I believed I was seriously injured.
Because for once, I didn't want to pretend I was fine.
A medical team checked me, treated the irritation on my face, and advised me about further care.
When they finished, I sat on a bench beneath the awning and called my sister, Lucía.
She answered on the second ring.
"Clara? It's late. What's wrong?"
