A group of business travelers nearby, their briefcases polished to a shine, whispered just loud enough for her to hear: “Bet she’s here to clean the place,” one said, chuckling into his latte.
Lysandra’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t turn.
She handed the barista a crumpled bill, took her coffee, and moved to a corner table.
As she sat, a child dropped a toy plane nearby, its plastic wings skittering across the floor.
Lysandra picked it up, her fingers brushing the tiny model, and handed it back to the boy.
His mother, flustered, muttered a quick thanks, but her eyes lingered on Lysandra’s faded sweater, her expression a mix of pity and disdain.
Lysandra sipped her coffee, her gaze distant, the toy plane’s shape lingering in her mind like a quiet promise.
The terminal was a blur of noise and motion: announcements crackling, kids running, suitcases clattering.
