Rain fell in a fine, misting drizzle over São Paulo the next morning. The kind that didn't soak you right away—just lingered, settling into fabric, into skin, into the cracks of the pavement until everything felt damp and heavy. Thiago stood beneath the awning outside the Palmeiras training complex, arms folded, hood pulled up against the damp chill, watching the drops trail down the edge of the corrugated metal roof in uneven streams. The sky was the color of wet concrete, pressing low over the training pitches, turning the grass a deeper, richer green.
He hadn't slept much.
Camila's voice still echoed in his ears from yesterday.
"I need to think about what you just told me."
She hadn't looked angry. Not exactly. Just… hurt. Staggered, maybe. Like he'd tilted her world on its axis and expected her to keep walking straight.
