Then she walks away. Not looking back—because in Vigo, you learn early: the sea takes everything. The tide doesn't ask for permission.

She picks up her bag. The ferry to Cangas is boarding. Or maybe a bus to Portugal. Or maybe just a taxi to Peinador Airport , from where all flights leave for nowhere you are going.

She waits under the marquee of the Estación Marítima . The rain doesn't fall—it drifts , sideways, as if the Atlantic itself is trying to push her back into the city. Behind her, the Casco Vello climbs the hill: narrow streets where, hours ago, you shared pimientos de Padrón and cold Estrella Galicia in a tavern that smelled of mussels and memory.

In Vigo, goodbyes are not dramatic. There is no running after trains. Instead, you watch the Cíes Islands turn to shadows through the mist. A horn sounds—deep, animal—from a freighter leaving the port. The sound travels through your ribs.

She kisses your cheek. Her lips taste of orujo and goodbye.

You stand alone at the Calle del Príncipe , the neon signs of the Zona Franca reflecting in puddles. A group of drunk sailors laughs outside a tasca . Somewhere, someone is playing AC/DC from an open window. This is not a sad city. It is simply a real one.