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The listing had been live for four minutes.
Two bedrooms. One bathroom. Unfurnished.
An old neighborhood—back when it was still possible.
He saved it.
Two hours later, he texted.
Carefully.
Like knocking on a door
he already suspected wouldn’t open.
The reply came the next day.
Viewing Thursday, 18:00.
Confirm attendance.
He confirmed.
Eleven people in the hallway.
No one really looked at anyone.
No one asked anything.
Street noise below.
Someone typing at the end of the corridor.
The owner opened the door
with the gesture of someone
repeating the same scene.
—You can come in.
The flat was smaller than the photos.
It always is.
No questions.
They moved through the space
as if measuring it with their bodies.
In the living room,
a couple spoke in lowered voices.
In the kitchen,
someone tested the water pressure.
In the bedroom,
a woman opened the wardrobe
as if expecting something.
There was nothing.
That was the point.
He stepped onto the balcony.
The street looked normal.
That was the problem.
He thought he could live there.
He knew he wouldn’t.
On the way back,
the carriage smelled of people coming off work.
On the platform screen,
a new listing appeared.
Two bedrooms. One bathroom.
He didn’t save it.
He already knew the number.
Santiago Copí
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