I was becoming a little maniacal about Cristóbal’s typewriter. For the last twenty minutes, I’d been cleaning every single key with a damp towel as if I could make them all shine. As if my husband would be coming back to finish his beloved novel. As if this would earn me his forgiveness. Once I finished with the bottom row, I started all over again from the top left corner. The letters and numbers got blurry. A tear fell on one of the keys.

A knock on the door startled me.

Have they found Cristóbal?

I rushed to open, drying my tears with the back of my hand and tightening my husband’s smoking jacket across my chest.

The lady on the other side of the door must have read the disappointment on my face. Cristóbal was dead. When was I going to accept it?

“Good morning,” she said. “I believe we met the other night when my husband was tending to you?”

I had a vague memory of those loose curls framing her pale face. When she smiled, her pointy canines disrupted the harmony and alignment of her front teeth, but otherwise, she was lovely, with a statuesque nose and full mouth.

“Your husband?” I said.

“Dr. Costa.”

“Oh, yes, the Catalán.”

“Yes. Forgive me for bothering you, but—” She looked down the hall. “Do you mind if I come in?”

“No, of course not.” I opened the door wider.

“It’s understandable that you don’t remember me, with all that’s happened.” She took a seat on Cristóbal’s cot, which remained as tidy as he’d left it. “I’m sorry, where are my manners? I haven’t even told you my name.” She extended her hand out to me. “I’m Montserrat.”

“Purificación, but everyone calls me Puri.”

“And you can call me Montse.”

I liked her immediately. She had one of those friendly faces that promised late nights, wine, and entertaining conversation. Under different circumstances, Montse and I could’ve become close friends.

She removed a box of cigarettes and matches from a silver purse and offered me one. I shook my head. I’d never been one to smoke.

My vice was chocolate.