The rest of the day dragged on after Vicente left. Nothing really happened, but everything felt too heavy.
Rosa invented tasks in the kitchen. She washed dishcloths that were already clean, swept a floor without a single grain of dust, organized things that didn't need organizing. It was as if keeping her hands busy was the only way not to think.
My father drank.
He drank like he hadn't in days… before long he was slumped on the couch, his body too loose to hold any conversation. I tried to talk to him once, then again. No answer. Just the low sound of the television and the glass being filled again.
When night came, I was already exhausted without having done anything.
I lay down on the extra bed in Lia's room. She slept peacefully, breathing deep, hugging a pillow almost as big as she was. I stared at the ceiling, counting invisible stains, trying to make my mind stop.
It didn't.
I thought about Rosa's look, Vicente's silence. The way he left without looking back.
I picked up my phone.
"Have you had dinner yet?"
I sent it without thinking much and waited.
Nothing…
Time passed in a strange way. When I realized it, I was already calling… the knot in my stomach came before the first ring. A dry tightness, the kind that seems to climb up your throat.
It rang… rang again.
Nothing.
I turned from side to side in bed. Closed my eyes, opened them. Took a deep breath. It didn't help. The silence only made everything louder inside me.
I got up.
I grabbed the first clothes I found that were still folded. I didn't think… I just left.
On the sidewalk, I got into the first taxi that passed.
I said the address of Vicente's workshop before reason had time to catch me.
The early morning was cold, but I felt numb. As if worry had shut off every other sensation.
I got out in front of the workshop.
The iron gate was closed.
I knocked once… waited… knocked again.
Nothing.
Of course he wouldn't be there.
I sat on the sidewalk, leaned against the cold gate, and stared at the empty street. That's when I noticed the flowerpots lined up along the wall, right after the end of the gate.
An old memory came back whole.
When my parents were still married, they always left a spare key under a pot. In case Vicente or I got home early from school and no one was there.
I stood up.
I started moving the pots, one by one. They were heavy, full of dirt. I went to the least likely one, farthest from the door, almost hidden.
The key was there.
I went in.
I crossed the workshop in silence, guided more by memory than sight. I followed the narrow hallway to the back house. I pushed the door, which was only leaning shut.
Everything was dark.
It would have been scary… if it weren't him in every detail.
The smell, the clothes thrown over the bed, the motorcycle helmet left on the table.
I looked around a little more.
A box.
The same box he hadn't let me open… the one he said he would throw away.
I went straight to it and opened it without thinking.
Papers, notebooks, school books.
I picked up a bunch of crumpled sheets. Tests… all with perfect grades. The handwriting I remembered so well.
Why did he stop after high school?
What had happened for him to abandon all that… and become this closed-off man, full of mysteries? He never had secrets from me. At least not before.
I kept searching.
At the bottom of the box, I found a bundle of letters tied with a rubber band.
I recognized them instantly.
They were mine.
I had written every one of them, over the years. I wrote more to Vicente than to my own father. At first, my father answered. Then, not even that.
Vicente never answered any.
The last letter… I remembered it well. I had started high school and wrote it crying… saying goodbye. I said I wouldn't write anymore if he didn't answer at least once.
He never did.
The tightness in my chest came hard. Anger, frustration, sadness. For a second, I thought about throwing everything back in the box, closing it, and leaving. Pretending I'd never seen any of it.
That's when I noticed another bundle of letters.
I grabbed it fast.
On the sender, his name.On the addressee… mine.
My head spun.
There were many. Far more than I had sent. Letters written to me… all kept there.
Why?
Why did he never let any of them reach me?
I needed to read them.
The dry sound of the gate echoed through the workshop.
My body reacted before my thoughts.
I threw everything back into the box, closed the lid, and ran to the couch. I lay down any way I could, turned my face to the backrest, and closed my eyes, pretending to sleep.
My heart was beating too loud.
I heard footsteps crossing the workshop.
More than one pair. Men's voices, at least two different ones. The sound was too solid to be a mistake. And Vicente's voice wasn't among them.
A shiver ran up my spine before I even understood why. The footsteps came closer, echoing on the concrete, and fear took shape too fast. I didn't think. I just moved.
I ran to Vicente's wardrobe, scared by the presence of those people I didn't know. I went inside and closed the door carefully, holding my breath. The space was tight, smelled like clean clothes mixed with oil and soap. Through the thin crack in the wood, I could see the bed.
That's how I saw it.
Two men came in and, between them, Vicente.
Being carried.
His forehead was bleeding, an open cut just above his eyebrow. His arm was wrapped in a white cloth tied any which way. He was walking, but he looked dizzy, supported more by the others than by himself.
My heart jumped into my throat. I covered my mouth, holding back the sound of shock before it escaped.
They laid him on the bed like someone dropping a weight after finishing a task.
— Rest now, Brow — one of them said. — Don't worry about anything. Zeca's bringing the car.
The other laughed, a short, almost amused laugh.
— Lobão's car is a total loss, for sure.
They left laughing, crossing the room as if they weren't leaving someone in that state.
I only managed to move after I heard their steps reach the hallway.
I came out of the wardrobe in a quick motion and went to the bed. Vicente was lying there, eyes closed. The cut on his forehead still bleeding slowly. His arm letting red soak through the white fabric.
I touched him carefully.
— Vicente… — I called.
Nothing.
I knelt beside the bed and brought my ear close to his face, desperate, trying to hear any sign. My chest tightened and tears started falling before I could stop them. I was already crying, almost sobbing.
Then his voice came out low, weak, but alive.
— Are you trying to suffocate me to death?
I lifted my face in shock.
He was looking at me. One eye swollen, both eyes half-open, focused on me.
I had a million questions in my head, but none of them could come out whole.
— Do you… do you have something to clean the wound? — I asked, already getting up. — A cloth… water…
He grabbed my hand before I took another step.
— Calm down — he said, without strength. — It was nothing serious.
I sat back down, pulling my hand back.
— How is that nothing serious? — my voice came out louder than I wanted. — You were carried in.
— I just need to stay still for a bit — he answered. — It'll pass soon.
I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and went to the sink. I found a clean white cloth, put some water in a basin, and came back.
When I started cleaning the cut on his forehead, he winced, giving away the pain.
— In the wardrobe — he murmured. — In the drawer there's a box.
I ran there and opened the drawer. The first-aid kit was there. Gauze, antiseptic, bandages. Everything too organized for someone who doesn't get hurt often.
I shook my head, pushing away the thought that couldn't grow now.
I went back to the bed and dressed the cut on his forehead more carefully. I looked at the cloth on his arm, stuck to the wound by dried blood. I peeled it off slowly… Vicente made a face, but didn't complain.
— As soon as it's morning I'm taking you to urgent care — I muttered. — That cut needs stitches. It'll scar.
— No hospital — he answered, eyes still closed. — I trust your work.
I looked at him, annoyed, but kept going. I cleaned the wound on his arm and redid the bandage with more care.
— Do you have any other injuries? — I asked.
He shook his head slowly.
— No… I don't think so.
I scanned his body, trying to make sure everything was okay. His shirt completely stained with blood, his pants too. He was still wearing his sneakers.
I knelt again, took off his shoes, then his socks. I sat back near him.
— Rest — I said softly. — I'll stay here. I'll take care of you.
He gave a short, tired, almost imperceptible smile. Took my hand again.
He nodded.
Closed his eyes.
And I stayed there, holding his hand, while the world I thought I was rediscovering quietly fell apart.