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... orn, 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 ...

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