The streets of Mexico City hummed with life as Maria wandered through La Condesa, her suitcase wheels clicking against the uneven pavement. She had come here running from nothing in particular, just the weight of expectation, the blur of routine back home.

She found a cafe with tables spilling onto the sidewalk and ordered coffee she couldn't properly pronounce. The waiter smiled anyway.

That's when she noticed him at the next table, an old man sketching in a worn notebook, his hands spotted with age and paint. He looked up, caught her staring, and instead of turning away, he slid his drawing across the gap between their tables.

It was her. Or someone like her. A figure with wings folded, sitting alone, waiting.

“You looked lost,” he said in accented English. “But also found.”

Maria laughed despite herself. “That doesn't make sense.”

“It doesn't have to.” He tapped the drawing, and my eyes followed his painted hands. “Some people are angels. Not the kind with bodies of light, but souls that carry the past forward into what's coming. They show up exactly when someone needs rescuing, even if that someone is themselves.”

She thought about arguing, but something in his words settled into the hollow space she'd been carrying. The waiter brought her coffee. The old man returned to his sketching. Nearby, street musicians started playing, and the melody seemed to know her somehow.

Maria realized she hadn't been lost at all. Everything she needed had been here, waiting in this vast and beautiful city, the kindness of strangers, the art on napkins, the music that felt like a memory. She had come to find discretion, to find herself, and instead found that she had always been found.

The old man finished his coffee and stood to leave. “The day always finds its muse,” he said, tucking his notebook under his arm. “And the muse always finds her way.”

He disappeared into the crowd, and Maria sat alone again. But not lonely. Never lonely. Not anymore.