Monday's dawn broke in silence. No street chatter, no early whistles from the dorm guard. Just the slow yawn of São Paulo waking up—and Thiago sitting by the window, legs drawn in, watching clouds drag shadows across the buildings like slow-moving giants. The city stretched before him, endless and humming, its streets still damp from overnight rain that left the air thick with petrichor and exhaust.
He hadn't slept much.
The decision he'd made—about Europe, about Marina, about the road ahead—settled in his chest like a quiet pressure. Not painful. Not heavy. Just there, constant as his heartbeat. The sheets beside him were rumpled from restless turning, the pillow still holding the indent of his head.
The idea had stopped being a possibility whispered in dark rooms.
It was now a plan. Ink waiting for paper.
