Windows began to slide open. A man in a bathrobe leaned out of a third-story flat, squinting into the dark. "Hey! Shut it!"
The man paused, his hand on the window frame. For a second, the silence of the city felt fragile, like it might shatter. Then, surprisingly, the man let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. "Barely! Go home, you lunatic!"
Elias walked with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He wasn't running from anything, and he wasn't chasing anyone. He was just full—heavy with the kind of words that don’t fit into text messages or quiet conversations over coffee. He felt like a pressurized steam engine with a jammed valve.
"¡Voy gritando por la calle!" he yelled to the empty balconies.