I told Valeria the cameras were part of a security upgrade after the missing passport. She nodded, tired, and said Andrés would complain.

He did. He called it unnecessary. He called it invasive. He called it my way of staying in their marriage.

I remember looking at him across the foyer while the installer packed his tools. “If nothing happens in common areas,” I said, “then there’s nothing to see.”

He smiled. Not with his eyes.

That December afternoon, when I drove to Coyoacán, the sky was pale and hard, and the streets had that winter quiet that makes every engine sound closer than it is.

I parked half a block away without knowing why. Maybe instinct is just memory moving faster than thought.