The hotel room was silent. The night in São Paulo remained hot and stuffy. But Eduardo didn't care about the heat or the fatigue.
He could still feel the sound of the violin pulsing in his chest.
Her image... or rather, Clara Vianna's, shone in his mind like a light that no longer faded.
He had returned from the theater without managing to see her.
Without confirming with his own eyes what his heart already knew: it was Elisa.
And now, with doubt tearing at his soul, he sought a way to connect with her.
He grabbed his tablet, accessed a music streaming platform, and typed:
"Clara Vianna... Live in Vienna."
He bought all the tracks.
He bought the physical album.
He bought the reproduction rights.
It was almost delirium.
Almost a silent plea.
He put on his headphones, closed his eyes... and then the sound began.
And it was as if time went backward.
Each note invaded his memory like a specter from the past.
