Now here he was. Finding her through a number she hadn’t given.
Sima typed back: “¿Quién eres?”
The rain in Madrid fell like a half-forgotten song. Sima pressed her forehead against the café window, tracing the blurred lights of Gran Vía with her fingertip. She’d been here an hour, waiting for someone who wasn’t coming.
His reply came fast: “Lo sé. Y aún así, aquí estás, respondiendo.”