Paper letters felt like a relic of the past, until Leon realized that e-mails couldn't be laced with dried flowers.

Months later, the paper still exuded a sweet aroma, though the fragile petals had turned to crumbs—as ghostly as hopes of a new meeting. The last letter was in February, when Ada promised to meet him in Washington. Now, in May, the orange tree, whose flowers she had put in her letters, must be fragrant again beside her little balcony, but Ada hadn't answered any e-mails or texts for a long time. It's time to forget her, but Leon has a few breezy weeks and her address on a paper envelope. He's also never been in Madrid.

Even if she slaps him and chases him away, at least he'll know she's okay and everything is over. But if she doesn't fight back, everything will spiral back to the way it was in July when they both first met... He forgets himself in a restless sleep during the flight and comes to his senses when the plane's landing gear hits the concrete. His palms sweat and he struggles to find the right alley, checking the map on his phone several times with anxiety.

You, on the other hand, knew this mysterious woman only from her exes who kept coming to this address. On the small table in front of the mirror you have a pile of letters that have been sent here from different cities and countries, and you're so tired of explaining to everyone that Ada hasn't been living there for months. So as you smoke on the small balcony, another stranger catches your attention.

Leon watches until you walk back into the building, slamming the glass door loudly. At nightfall, the window behind the orange tree glows and blossoms, its petals scattered by the light breeze of late spring. Climbing the narrow stairs, Leon convinces himself that everything is fine, but his fingers tremble and he breathes heavily. After a shrill ringing, he hears the sound of muffled footsteps.

"Hello," Leon tried in broken Spanish, even though his skills are only good enough to explain himself during sex. "May I see Ada?"