You cannot speak.
Felipe reaches for your hand under the table.
This time, not to silence you.
To hold you.
You let him.
Later, after dessert, the doorbell rings downstairs.
Nora checks the camera and comes back up, uncertain.
“Ms. Emma,” she says, “it’s Martin.”
The terrace goes silent.
Felipe stands immediately.
You do too.
“Stay here,” you tell him.
Felipe hesitates, then nods.
That nod matters.
You go downstairs alone.
Martin is standing outside the bakery entrance with a small white box in his hands. He looks different. Thinner. Less polished. His agency closed two months ago, though you heard he found work as a consultant under someone else’s management.
You open the door but do not invite him in.
“What do you need?”
He holds out the box.
“I bought this from your shop yesterday.”
You do not take it.
He swallows.
“I read the line inside.”
“What did it say?”
He opens the box and shows you the inside lid.
Cruelty is not humor.
You say nothing.
Martin’s eyes are wet, but you do not know if the tears are grief, shame, or self-pity.
“I’m not here to ask for anything,” he says.
“Good.”
He nods.
“I was horrible to you.”
“Yes.”
“And to Clara.”
“Yes.”
“And to a lot of people.”
“Yes.”
He lets out a breath.
“I used jokes because if people laughed, I didn’t have to see myself.”
