Francisca had always been at the edge of their lives, a quiet presence whose name lingered in conversation without demanding attention. She lived just two streets away from Calvin’s old apartment, the one he had occupied before moving in with Maya. Only a year or two older than him, she was independent and pragmatic, running a small online food business. Their interactions had always been minimal: polite greetings when paths crossed, brief nods when Calvin delivered eggs, a smile exchanged at most. Nothing that demanded notice. Nothing that threatened.
Yet, over the past few weeks, Francisca had begun to occupy more and more space in their apartment, in Calvin’s words and in the way he structured his evenings. He spoke of her often — her resilience in leaving a failing marriage, her coura
