This year, Isabel was worse. Her cough deepened, her strength fading. Miguel knew she needed warmth, medicine, real food—but all he could give was love.
That morning, he decided to try. A cake, he thought. Something small to remind her of better days.
He walked for hours past bakery windows, imagining flavors he would never taste himself. He hoped someone might offer food destined for the trash—still good, just unsellable.
That hope led him to La Corona Pastelería, one of the most exclusive shops in the Eixample district. The window glittered with elegant desserts. After a long moment, Miguel stepped inside.
The marble floors, crystal lights, and well-dressed customers made him feel invisible and exposed at once. Whispers followed him. He forced himself forward.
Behind the counter stood Sergio Molina, the owner, whose polite smile vanished instantly. Miguel explained softly: the anniversary, the illness, the lack of money. He asked only for something that would otherwise be thrown away.
Sergio laughed loudly and told him this wasn’t a shelter for beggars. He ordered Miguel to leave at once.
Miguel lowered his head, swallowing tears, and turned toward the door.
Then a man stood.