Quiet day. Tortilla, green tea, a book. Spent the afternoon stitching a pitch deck and handing a framework to another friend. The invisible day before a visible one. Evening: beard overdue. Walked to Ruzafa for a new spot. Pushed the door — a wall of herbal smoke hit first. Ah. That kind of barbershop. The barber circled the chair, humming, pausing, doing something careful with the scissors while the room had its own weather. Ten euros, tidier beard, a neighborhood scene collected.