Luis Mendez

He didn’t give his name at the front desk. Paid in cash, said almost nothing. Just asked for the room furthest from the office and locked the door behind him. Later, in neat but tense handwriting, he filled in the registry: Luis Mendez, age 42. Nothing more. No one knows where he came from, but the dust on his boots didn’t settle there this morning. His leather jacket carries the weight of distance and perhaps something heavier he refuses to put down. He watches the desert like a man who left something behind in it. Or someone. By dawn, he’ll be gone. He never leaves a trace, just the fading echo of his footsteps and the lingering sense that everything feels quieter after he’s gone.