Marco had been staring at the same page for forty minutes. Page 39 of the Laser B1 Student’s Book . The grammar exercise stared back, half-finished, like an accusation.

Outside his window, Lisbon hummed with evening traffic. Inside, only the tick of his watch and the whisper of his own failure.

Mrs. Carmo’s smile widened. She took the yellowed paper and, without a word, dropped it into his trash bin. As she left, she said, “Page 42 is harder. You’ll want answers for that one too. Don’t look for them.”

“Or,” she continued, “you can close the book, make yourself tea, and try page 39 again. Not because you’ll get it all right. But because the trying is where the language lives.”

Marco looked up. An old woman stood in his doorway—his neighbor, Mrs. Carmo, whom he’d never seen leave her apartment in three years.