The Train to Granada

The train left Madrid at six in the morning. Half the seats were empty. Elena chose a window seat and watched the city give way to dry, open fields.

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A woman sat across from her. She was older — maybe sixty, maybe more — and she had a small bag with a sandwich wrapped in foil. Soon her phone rang. She answered quietly, but the train was very quiet too.

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"No, I haven't told her yet," the woman whispered. "I will, but not today. Today I just want to see her." A pause. "She doesn't know I'm sick. Please, don't tell her either."

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Elena looked out the window and pretended not to hear. But she could not stop listening. The woman talked for a few minutes more, then hung up and ate her sandwich slowly.

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When the train arrived in Granada, the woman stood up and looked at Elena. "I'm going to see my granddaughter," she said, as if explaining something Elena had already asked. "I haven't seen her in a year. Have a good trip."

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Elena watched her walk down the platform and disappear into the crowd.

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