The morning sun filtered into Thiago's bedroom through worn, half-open blinds. Dust danced in the golden light, floating above the shelves crammed with old cleats, youth tournament medals, and signed Palmeiras posters now curling at the edges. A breeze from the open window carried in the faint smell of wet grass and someone grilling pão de queijo down the street.
Thiago lay in bed, one arm draped across his forehead, staring at the ceiling. It wasn't silent—the city never really was—but there was a strange stillness inside him. The kind that came after a high. After the storm.
On his desk sat the envelope.
Cream-colored. Slightly bent from being tucked in the front pocket of his bag. Camila's handwriting curled across the front in blue ink. Just his name. Nothing more.
He'd carried it with him since the night she gave it to him. She had pressed it into his hands without ceremony, her eyes not quite meeting his. A goodbye, wrapped in paper and silence.
He reached for it.
Paused.
