Margen
They painted it one Monday, at night: a brand-new zebra crossing, blinding white, on a street where no one ever crosses. Elena found it funny. Town halls do things like that.
The following Tuesday she could have sworn it was closer to her doorway. She measured it in steps, counting paving stones, and laughed at herself. The week after, she didn't laugh: the first stripe now began where the third had ended. No one else seemed to notice. Cars kept rolling over it, indifferent; the paint stayed immaculate, without a single scuff, as if freshly done.
Elena stopped looking. She learned the trick of leaving with her eyes on her phone and turning quickly toward the bus stop.
This morning, when she opened the front door, the first white stripe began exactly at her doormat. Across the street, the traffic light that has never existed on that side turned green, and the little walking man set off.