Then she walks away. Not looking back—because in Vigo, you learn early: the sea takes everything. The tide doesn't ask for permission.

You hold her hand. It is cold.

She waits under the marquee of the Estación Marítima . The rain doesn't fall—it drifts , sideways, as if the Atlantic itself is trying to push her back into the city. Behind her, the Casco Vello climbs the hill: narrow streets where, hours ago, you shared pimientos de Padrón and cold Estrella Galicia in a tavern that smelled of mussels and memory.

“ Coídate ,” she says. Take care. The Galician word is softer than Spanish, a damp whisper.

She kisses your cheek. Her lips taste of orujo and goodbye.