One night, a tourist asked him, “Why do you watch?”

Then he smiled, turned, and vanished into the mist — leaving behind the faint click of an invisible shutter.

In the rain-slicked backstreets of A Coruña, they called him o mirador — the lookout. Not because he watched the sea, but because he watched them . The Galician gotta voyeurex, a ghost in the old stone archways, his eyes two wet pebbles polished by fog.