A courtyard off a quiet street. Iron chairs, white cushions, flowers on every table. The arcade keeps the sun at a polite distance.

Nobody here is in a hurry, least of all the light.

One question carried the afternoon: what does luxury feel like when nobody is trying to sell anything?

The interest was never the windows. It was everything arranged around them. A place set with care and then left alone.

Place first. Then the details. Thistles and white roses beside a menu. An awning settling under an arch. A glass of water on a wooden tray, set down without ceremony.

The bag and the envelope came last, almost as an afterthought. By then the afternoon had already made its point.