The sun had already dipped behind the rooftops of Campinas when Thiago finally pushed open the apartment door. The hinges squeaked their familiar protest, a sound as much a part of home as his mother's voice. He paused in the doorway, letting the warmth of the apartment wash over him. The air smelled of sautéed garlic and onions, with the underlying scent of the lemon-scented cleaner his mother used religiously on their small kitchen. The TV murmured in the background, some telenovela she claimed not to watch but always left playing for company.
Thiago toed off his sneakers, lining them up neatly by the door where they'd sat since he was a boy. The tile floor was cool beneath his socks, worn smooth in the paths they'd all walked countless times. From Clara's room came the muffled bass of whatever pop song she was obsessed with this week, the rhythm vibrating through the thin walls.
"Oi, Mãe," he called softly, his voice catching slightly in his throat.
