The morning air in Campinas hung thick with the scent of burnt coffee and diesel fumes as Thiago sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the cracked plaster wall opposite him. The water stain near the ceiling had grown since last summer, its edges creeping outward like some strange continent forming in reverse. His sheets, washed too many times with cheap detergent, scratched against his bare legs as he swung them over the side of the mattress.
Down the hallway, the apartment creaked with familiar sounds - Clara's off-key humming through her battered headphones, the rhythmic scrape of his mother's broom against tile floors, the persistent drip from the kitchen faucet no one had ever gotten around to fixing properly. Thiago pressed his palms against his closed eyelids until colors bloomed behind them. Three nights without proper sleep had left his thoughts sluggish, his movements heavy.
