The small grocery store was not part of my routine.
I was only there because a refrigerator cannot stay empty when what they already decided to grab, move on. I don't. I observe.
Tomatoes aligned too perfectpeople are coming to your home — even if those people know perfectly well how to take care of themselves. Organization is respect. And respect avoids noise.
The aisle of fresh vegetables was narrow, overly bright, with that clean, damp smell that tries to imitate nature. Everything seemed excessively alive for a place where no one really looks at anything. People pass by, grably to be natural. Carrots washed until they looked artificial. Basil still with roots — useless for those who don't know how to care for it, perfect for those who control the process to the end.
I put two bunches in the cart.
Dinner needed to be simple. Functional. Something that didn't require constant conversation or excessive emotional attention. Something that could be ready at the exact right time, without improvisation.
Slow-roasted vegetables. Grilled protein. A reduced sauce, nothing intrusive. Food that does what it promises.
I was comparing zucchinis — size, firmness, absence of blemishes — when I heard the voice.
— You buying that to cook, or just to feel healthy?
I took half a second longer than usual to react. Not out of surprise. Out of calculation.
I turned my face slowly.
She didn't seem dangerous. She didn't seem like anything, really. Simple jeans, dark coat, hair tied up carelessly. A common face, the kind you forget two minutes later. Precisely because of that, uncomfortable.
— To cook.
My voice came out steady, neutral. A clear ending.
She smiled, as if I had said something clever.
— Brave. Most people buy vegetables the way they buy excuses.
I went back to looking at the zucchinis. I didn't need to look at her to know she was still there.
— If you're not going to use them, it's waste.
— You say that like it's a crime.
— Waste is a crime. It's just not punished.
She laughed. A short laugh, too genuine for someone I didn't know.
— Are you military?
I shook my head.
— Engineer? Something methodical.
I thought about ignoring her. About pushing the cart forward and ending the interaction like I do with almost everyone. But there was something... disorganized about her. Not chaotic. Too free.
— I'm making dinner for friends.
She raised an eyebrow.
— Friends? You say that like you're saying "mandatory meeting."
— They're not incompatible.
She picked up an eggplant, turned it in her hand as if evaluating a bladed weapon.
— What are you going to do with all this?
— Roast it. Long time. Controlled temperature. No rush.
— Sounds... serious.
— It works.
She rested her elbow on the shelf, leaning slightly toward me, invading a space most people don't realize exists.
— Do you always choose things that work?
I stopped.
I looked at her — really looked this time.
It wasn't invasive curiosity. Just a loose question, thrown into the air by someone who didn't care whether it was answered or not. That made her more dangerous than someone insistent.
— Yes. Whenever possible.
She nodded, as if that confirmed something she had already suspected.
— Good luck with dinner, then. Your friends must trust you a lot.
— Trust isn't a requirement. Just consistency.
She smiled again, but now there was something different there. Less light.
— Yeah. I imagine.
Then she walked away, pushing her cart in the opposite direction, without looking back.
I stood still for a few seconds, holding the zucchini as if it had suddenly lost its proper weight. My reflection in the refrigerated glass looked exactly the same as always. Nothing had changed.
Still, I felt that familiar discomfort. Not anxiety. Not curiosity.
Displacement.
I put the zucchinis in the cart and moved on. Garlic. Onions. Rosemary. Everything calculated. Everything predictable.
Dinner would be quiet enough that no one would need to explain themselves. Precise enough that no one would need to praise it too much. A dish that sustains, not impresses.
Like me.
As I headed to the checkout, I thought that woman was not part of the plan. It meant nothing. There would be no continuation.
But the truth — the one I rarely admit — is that it wasn't the conversation that unsettled me.
It was the fact that, for a few seconds, I wasn't thinking about control at all.
And that, more than any external threat, has always been the real risk.
The apartment was exactly as it should be when the doorbell rang for the first time.
Nothing out of place. Nothing excessive. The lighting adjusted to avoid unnecessary shadows or too much intimacy. The food in the oven, time-controlled. The wine — mine — still unopened. I wouldn't drink before everyone arrived. Some things are done later.
I opened the door.
Amelia entered first, as she always does, even when she isn't the first to arrive. Not out of haste — out of presence. She occupies space without asking permission, not physically, but mentally. She looked around quickly, registering everything, assessing, silently organizing what wasn't hers.
— Everything is... functional.
It was the closest thing to a compliment coming from her.
Amelia is not someone who seeks emotional comfort. She seeks efficiency, control, advantage. Where others see a home, she sees a system. Where they see people, she sees gears. And yet, there is something in her that insists on competing even when there is no need — as if resting were a quiet defeat.
She placed her coat, folded too precisely, over the back of a chair and went straight to the kitchen, observing the oven as if she could measure exact time with her eyes alone.
Catherine arrived shortly after, bringing with her the controlled chaos that always follows.
— And he sent this — she said, lifting the wine bottle as if presenting irrefutable evidence. — Said it was better than anything you'd choose.
She placed the bottle on the counter without ceremony.
Catherine doesn't understand limits the way the rest of us do. For her, boundaries are moral challenges, not rules. She lives in a permanent state of confrontation with the world — not out of gratuitous aggression, but because she believes that yielding is allowing something wrong to continue existing. She looks at places as if asking who there deserves respect. People included.
— He's wrong — I said.
— Of course he is — she smiled. — But he insisted.
I didn't ask about E. Catherine brought the wine the way one brings a fragment of someone else, just to provoke. It worked.
Gaspard came in without ringing the bell, as if the concept were optional.
— What a serious place — he said, opening his arms, slowly turning in the middle of the living room. — Makes you want to whisper without knowing why.
Gaspard lives as if the world were an improvised stage and he had never received the script. He charms because he doesn't ask permission. He irritates for the same reason. He floats between people, never settles, never fully commits — and yet leaves marks.
He took an olive from the counter before I could say anything.
— Relax, it's just one — he said, reading my expression with irritating ease. — Consider it a food safety test.
Victoria was the last to arrive.
She entered almost silently, as if the apartment had adjusted itself to her presence before the door even closed. She didn't observe the environment — she felt it. Her eyes passed through the room without hurry, absorbing light, temperature, silence.
— It's calm here — she said softly. — I like that.
Victoria doesn't compete for space. She preserves it. She lives as someone trying not to disturb the world, yet understands more about it than she would like. There is a calm in her that isn't passive — it's vigilant. As if she were always prepared for impact, while hoping it never comes.
She sat away from the others, near the window, as if she needed to keep an emotional escape route permanently available.
I closed the door.
The apartment was now full of personalities that don't fit together. People who, together, form something unstable. Not friends in the traditional sense. Not family. Something closer to a silent agreement among individuals who know too much to pretend normality.
The food was ready.
I served the plates without ceremony, distributing exact portions. Catherine commented on the seasoning. Amelia adjusted the position of the cutlery. Gaspard praised the smell as if it were an aesthetic experience. Victoria thanked me with a discreet nod.
I opened the bottle of wine — E's.
— So — Gaspard said, raising his glass. — What do we owe this to? Dinner, people, roasted vegetables... it almost feels like a social gesture.
— Organization — I replied. — People arrive. Food is necessary.
Catherine laughed.
— You say that like you're building a fallout shelter.
— Essentially, that's what it is — I said.
There was a brief silence. Not uncomfortable. Evaluative.
Amelia watched me over the rim of her glass.
— You're tense.
— I'm normal.
— No — she corrected. — You're quieter than usual.
I didn't respond.
The animosity wasn't explicit. It lived in the pauses that lasted too long. In the glances that lingered a second beyond what's acceptable. In the fact that we were all there, seated at the table, pretending this was just dinner.
But none of us does anything "just."
As I cut the vegetables with excessive precision, I thought of the woman from the grocery store. I thought about how that disconnected conversation had created a crack too small to be noticed — but enough to let something in that I hadn't invited.
Control isn't lost all at once.
It leaks.
And there, at that table, surrounded by people who live in their own ways — too free, too intense, too silent — I had the uncomfortable feeling that everyone there knew that.
Even if no one said a word.
Gaspard was the first to notice that the silence had grown too dense to be ignored.
He set his cutlery down with slight exaggeration — not noise, just intention — and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms like someone deciding to intervene in a poorly rehearsed scene.
— All right — he said. — This has officially become unbearable.
Amelia raised her eyes slowly, without surprise.
— We're having dinner — she replied. — Not a group therapy session.
— Exactly the problem — he shot back. — You all eat like you're being observed. No one chews like that when they're comfortable.
Catherine smirked, swirling the wine in her glass.
— And what do you suggest? A toast to our collective inability to relax?
— No. Something more radical — Gaspard said. — Normal conversation. Normal people do that. They talk about useless things. Harmless things. Things that mean nothing.
Victoria lifted her gaze from the edge of her plate.
— Football.
The word landed on the table like an object out of place.
There was a full second of silence.
Catherine frowned.
— Football... football?
— Yes — Victoria confirmed, without hesitation. — It's something normal people talk about.
Gaspard blinked, surprised, then broke into a wide smile.
— I like you more and more.
Amelia tilted her head slightly.
— Since when are you interested in football?
Victoria shrugged.
— I'm not. But I follow it. It's predictable. Ninety minutes, clear rules, a simple objective. People scream, but nothing really changes.
— That's... disturbingly accurate — I murmured.
She looked at me, almost as if she'd forgotten I was there.
— Last week's match was a tactical disaster — she continued. — Tottenham trying to control something that hadn't been under control since the first mistake.
Catherine let out a short laugh.
— Are you talking about football or about us?
— Both work the same way — Victoria replied calmly. — When someone insists too much on control, they lose the ability to adapt.
I felt the comment more than I heard it.
Gaspard clapped his hands once.
— See? That's normal conversation. People get together, pretend they're talking about sports, but they're really talking about themselves.
— I'm not pretending — Victoria said. — I'm just using a socially accepted example.
— That explains a lot — Catherine said. — A perfectly questionable choice.
— Exactly — Victoria replied. — It's not successful enough to create expectations, nor bad enough to generate emotional attachment. It's... safe.
Gaspard pointed his fork at her.
— That's the saddest description of a club I've ever heard.
— It works — she said.
I looked around the table.
Amelia analyzing. Catherine provoking. Gaspard trying to keep everything moving. Victoria observing, always one step behind — or ahead, depending on perspective.
And me, serving carefully planned food to people who don't fit into any plan.
The atmosphere had changed. No longer heavy — just unstable. Like a thin surface over something that shouldn't be poked.
Gaspard went back to eating, satisfied.
— There. Now we can pretend we're a group of normal people having dinner on a Tuesday.
— It's not Tuesday — Amelia corrected.
— See? — he sighed. — That's why we try to talk about football.
Victoria smiled. Almost imperceptibly.
And for a few minutes, the animosity dissolved enough to allow the sound of cutlery, sips of wine, and irrelevant comments.
But I knew.
Just as everyone there knew.
Normality hadn't arrived.
It had only been invited to sit at the table — temporarily.
The conversation resumed, but not naturally. It flowed like water held too tightly inside an old pipe: it made noise, vibrated, threatened to burst.
— Football is politics in disguise — Catherine said, swirling her glass again. — People pretend they choose teams out of tradition, but deep down they choose out of identity.
— I disagree — Amelia replied immediately. — Football is distraction. Politics is a consequence.
— That's exactly what someone would say if they believed control actually exists — Catherine shot back.
Gaspard chewed slowly, pleased not to be at the center of the friction for once.
— You're talking about men running after a ball — he said. — It's admirable how you manage to turn that into ideology.
Victoria wiped her lips with her napkin before speaking.
— It's not about the ball — she said. — It's about belonging. People need something simple to channel frustration. A symbol. A clear enemy.
Amelia watched her carefully.
— That applies to anything that becomes too public.
I nodded almost imperceptibly, more to myself than to them. I kept eating. The dinner was good. Exactly as planned. The problem was never the food.
— The media loves it — Catherine continued. — A scoreboard, a villain, an easy narrative. Everything fits into a headline.
The word headline hung in the air longer than it should have.
Gaspard noticed too late.
— Did you see... — he began casually, still smiling — ...what they're calling the "diplomatic disaster of the week"?
The silence returned, thinner now, sharper.
— No — Amelia said flatly. — But I imagine you're about to tell us.
— Mogadishu — he finished.
The name didn't need explaining. Even so, the world insisted on explaining it every day.
— Four men hanged in a public square — Catherine said, any humor gone. — "Spies," according to the Somali government. "Legitimate execution," according to them. Barbarism, according to the rest of the planet.
Victoria turned her gaze toward the window.
— Global media repeated the image until it lost all meaning — she said. — When everything becomes spectacle, no one feels anything anymore.
Amelia set her glass down with excessive care.
— British foreign policy has always operated at that edge — she said. — Far enough to deny responsibility. Close enough to reap results.
— Or to pay the price — Catherine countered. — Always the same places. Always the same justifications. Stability, security, strategic interest. Pretty words for selective intervention.
— Intervention isn't a whim — Amelia replied. — It's a consequence of absence. Someone always fills the space.
— And someone always dies — Catherine returned coldly.
Gaspard raised his hands.
— Hey. I only mentioned it because it was on every channel.
— Exactly — Victoria said. — That's how it starts. A "normal" subject that leaks into something too real to ignore.
I felt the tension in my jaw before realizing I had stopped chewing.
— The problem — Amelia said now, looking directly at me, though she hadn't used my name — is that MI6 is cornered. Public pressure. Political pressure. The government needs quick answers.
— And convenient culprits — Catherine added. — That always works.
— You speak as if there's no responsibility at all — Amelia said.
— I speak as someone who knows responsibility rarely falls on those who decide — Catherine replied. — Only on those who execute.
Victoria finally looked back at the table.
— Mogadishu isn't an exception — she said quietly. — It's just the point where things became too visible.
The air felt warmer. Or maybe it was just the accumulation of voices held back for too long.
Gaspard cleared his throat.
— Right... football seemed like a better choice ten minutes ago.
— Everything seems better before someone says the wrong word — Catherine murmured.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
It was enough.
I stood without saying anything and walked to the shelf where the television remote rested exactly where I always leave it. I pressed the button before anyone could continue.
The screen lit up. Low volume. An anchor speaking with the trained neutrality of someone who announces tragedies like a weather forecast.
"...the British government remains under intense pressure following the events in Mogadishu..."
I raised the volume just enough to fill the space between us.
— Let them talk — I said, returning to the table. — At least for now.
No one argued.
The plates were nearly empty. The wine, halfway gone. The night far from over.
And I had the uncomfortable sense that that dinner — which was supposed to be nothing more than food, people, and controlled silence — had turned into something none of us really wanted to face.
But that all of us knew was coming.
The anchor's voice shifted in cadence.
It wasn't immediate. First came that trained pause, the microsecond in which the teleprompter changes and the face adjusts to a new tragedy — one that doesn't require moral outrage, only attention.
"...in another part of the world, Canadian and American authorities have confirmed a railway accident on the line between Seattle and Vancouver..."
The image on the screen changed. Twisted tracks. Railcars tilted at unsafe angles. Red lights flashing in the night.
— How awful — Catherine said automatically, lifting her glass to her lips.
— Old infrastructure — Amelia commented, almost in the same tone she would use to talk about a poorly maintained building. — That line already had a history of issues.
Gaspard nodded, relieved that there was finally something that didn't demand a moral stance.
— That's trains for you — he said. — Any mistake turns into a spectacle.
Victoria tilted her head slightly, watching the screen as if observing something too distant to hurt.
— At least it's clear — she said. — An accident. No one has to choose a side.
I noticed the shift before I felt the relief.
The word accident worked like a collective sedative. It didn't ask for deeper explanations. It didn't demand immediate blame. It carried no geopolitics, no flags, no inflamed speeches.
The tension that had been building in layers began to dissipate — not because it had been resolved, but because it had found something simpler on which to rest.
— Any casualties? — Catherine asked, now with genuine curiosity, almost human.
— They're still assessing — Amelia replied, reading the caption before the anchor finished the sentence.
No one mentioned Mogadishu.
It wasn't a conscious decision. It just happened. As it always does when something appears that allows people to look away without guilt.
I watched each of them.
Amelia's shoulders had relaxed - only millimeters, but enough to betray relief. Catherine had lost the combative shine in her eyes. Gaspard was once again comfortable in the role of casual commentator. Victoria seemed... distant, but lighter.
And me?
I turned off the oven, even though there was nothing left inside.
The news continued, now interviewing a railway transport specialist. Numbers. Statistics. Technical words that hurt no one.
Dinner resumed its rhythm - chewing, drinking, small comments that led nowhere.
That was how the world worked.
One tragedy replaced another. A "normal" subject occupied the space left by something too unbearable to keep facing.
And for a few minutes, the table was just a table again.
But as I watched the screen, I was certain of one thing:
The silence settling now was not peace.
It was postponement.
And I knew, with the same precision with which I adjust oven time, that it wouldn't stay that way for long.
The apartment no longer had voices.
Only traces remained: a forgotten glass near the sink, the distant smell of wine in the air, Gaspard's chair slightly out of alignment - a misplacement I corrected before turning off the lights. Not out of practical necessity. Out of principle.
It was late night. The kind of hour that belongs to no one. Too late to be night, too early to be morning. London hangs suspended in that interval, breathing quietly.
I wasn't asleep when the phone rang.
I never am.
I looked at the screen. Hidden number. No surprise. I answered before the second ring ended.
- Henry.
E's voice sounded as it always does: too tired to be kind, too alert to be careless. The voice of someone who calls not because they want to, but because something cannot wait for an acceptable hour.
- Are you awake? - he asked.
- I am - I replied. I added nothing. It wasn't necessary.
There was a brief silence. On the other end, I heard the distant sound of papers being moved, perhaps a cup being set down with a bit too much force.
- I hope this isn't inconvenient - E said, in the exact tone of someone who knows that it is.
- It isn't.
- Good. - A pause. - Do you still wake up early to walk?
The question was too casual to be innocent.
- When the weather allows.
- Tomorrow will be clear - E said. - Cold, but clear. Good for... thinking.
I waited.
- The park near the river - he continued. - The one with the bad coffee that opens too early.
- Yes.
- I'll be there - E said. - Or someone who looks a lot like me. - A restrained sigh. - We don't need to call this a meeting.
- Of course not.
- Bring a coat - he added, almost like an afterthought. - These hours don't forgive.
- They don't - I agreed.
The call ended without a goodbye.
I stood there for a few seconds with the phone still against my ear, listening to the nothing that comes after the click. Then I lowered it slowly and set it on the kitchen counter.
I looked out the window. The sky was beginning to lighten almost imperceptibly, as if the day were testing the ground before announcing itself.
The dinner felt like it had happened in another life. Mogadishu. Seattle. Vancouver. Accidents. Noise. Deflections.
Now there was only this: a meeting point, a conversation that would pretend to be casual, and the certainty that nothing said there would have been decided that night.
Some things are planned long before anyone picks up the phone.
I took my coat. Adjusted the collar. Turned off the last light.
The day hadn't begun yet.
But for me, it was already in motion.
The park was almost empty at that hour. Too late into the night for insomniacs, too early for the disciplined. The river followed its course as if nothing in the world deserved urgency.
E was already seated on the bench when I arrived.
He didn't look at me. He didn't need to. I recognized the posture before I slowed my pace. Shoulders slightly hunched, hands resting on the cane more out of habit than necessity. He always chooses benches facing the sunrise, as if he wants to make sure he'll still be there when the day decides to begin.
I sat on the bench to his left, looking in the opposite direction. Between us, enough space to appear casual. Enough space to say we are not together.
- The coffee is still bad - he said, without turning his face.
- It would be strange if it weren't - I replied.
We stayed silent for a few seconds, observing different things but listening to the same environment: distant footsteps, an indecisive bird, wind colder than the season should allow.
- Train - he said at last. - Seattle to Vancouver.
- I saw it on the news.
- Accident - E continued, in the neutral tone he uses for words he doesn't fully believe. - At least that's how it will be recorded.
I nodded, still looking ahead.
- Old infrastructure - I said. - Overloaded line.
- Yes. - A pause too short to be comfortable. - And among the dead there was a Canadian.
I waited.
- My informant - he added. - Discreet. Careful. He had access to conversations that shouldn't exist.
I felt the weight of the sentence without reacting.
- He had uncovered information about MI6 - E said, as if commenting on the weather. - Internal movements. Strange noise. Someone talking too much. To someone who shouldn't be listening.
- And now he's dead.
- Now he's dead - he confirmed. - And what he knew died with him. Or ended up somewhere else.
The sun was beginning to appear between the buildings, still weak, without conviction.
- All the pressure is pointing toward Somalia - E continued. - It's convenient. Mogadishu is still too fresh in the collective memory.
- But you don't think it was them.
- I have no idea who it was - he corrected. - And that's the problem. I don't know who is leaking information. Or to whom.
He leaned slightly forward and, with an almost distracted motion, placed a brown envelope on the bench, exactly between us. I didn't look at it immediately. I learned early that visible curiosity is weakness.
- Crows Unit - E said, finally turning his face just enough for me to see the tired profile. - New mission.
- Nature? - I asked.
- Too sensitive for protocols - he replied. - There will be no support. No official backing. No standard activation. If anything goes wrong, it never existed.
- And the contact?
- Only me - he said, without hesitation. - From start to finish.
The envelope looked heavier than it should have been.
- This isn't an operation - I observed. - It's isolation.
- It's containment - E corrected. - Find where the leak is. And who's pulling the line.
We fell silent again. The park was beginning to come to life, people appearing as if they had always been there.
I reached out and picked up the envelope.
- I'll assemble the team - I said.
E nodded, as if he had known the answer before calling.
- Do it quickly - he said. - And carefully.
I stood first. Adjusted my coat. Looked at the river one last time before walking away.
I didn't look back.
Some conversations don't need goodbyes.
They continue, even after the bench is left empty.