The café had the kind of quiet that only arrived after close of work, when the rush had thinned and the world seemed to exhale. Lights dimmed to a forgiving amber, soft jazz murmured from hidden speakers, and the barista wiped down counters more out of habit than necessity. It was the sort of place where truths felt safer, where words could land gently instead of shattering.

Gloria sat across from me; hands wrapped tightly around a mug she had not touched. Her shoulders were stiff; chin lifted ...