Elisa spent part of the morning in Eduardo's closet. The space was enormous, more like a men's boutique than a regular closet. Designer shirts, tailored suits, perfectly aligned Italian shoes... but also a certain carelessness.
Mixed-up hangers, tangled ties, shoes out of place. Nothing serious, but Elisa knew the type of man Eduardo was. Detail-oriented, methodical, discreet. And behind that coldness, she suspected there was something there that needed order—even if he would never say it.
She sorted the shirts by color, the suits by occasion, cleaned the hangers, reorganized the ties by shade. She folded socks, aligned belts. She placed discreet labels on the shelves and arranged his favorite colognes in the sequence he used them.
Three hours later, the closet looked completely different. Clean, functional, elegant. Just as she imagined Eduardo would like it.
She stood there for a few moments, observing the result with a small smile on her lips. A small gesture. But full of intention.
Maybe he'll notice.
Maybe this will show him that I care.
------
At night, he arrived around nine. Without warning. As usual.
Elisa was sitting on the living room sofa, reading. Hearing the sound of the door, she stood up discreetly, her heart beating faster than it should.
Eduardo entered, dropped his jacket on the back of a chair and went straight to the bedroom.
She waited a few minutes, then approached the half-open door.
Your closet... —she began, in a gentle voice— I organized it today. I thought it might help with your routine.
He was unbuttoning his shirt. He didn't even look at her.
Oh. Okay.
Silence.
She waited more. Waited for some comment, some gesture. A look. Anything.
But all that came was the sound of his pants zipper and the faucet being turned on in the bathroom.
Elisa stood there for a few more seconds. Then, she slowly backed away.
And felt, for the first time in days, real frustration.
It wasn't sadness. It was a mixture of exhaustion and disappointment. As if that silent gesture of care had been thrown to the ground without even a glance.
She left the penthouse minutes later. She needed to breathe. Feel the sea air. Escape the golden prison where her presence was always invisible.
------
The Ipanema shoreline was calm that night. The breeze blew gently, mixing the smell of sea salt with jasmine. Elisa walked slowly, her loose hair dancing with the wind, her eyes downcast.
That's when the sound reached her.
A saxophone.
Melancholic notes echoed from the sidewalk, accompanied only by the distant sound of waves. A street musician was playing under a lamppost, eyes closed, body slightly tilted as if conversing with the instrument.
Elisa stopped.
The notes seemed to enter her like gentle needles. It was jazz—Autumn Leaves, perhaps. And it made her feel something she hadn't felt for weeks: life.
She remembered herself with a violin in her arms, at fourteen, practicing until her fingers hurt. She remembered the performances at the conservatory, the pride in each note, the way the world disappeared when she played.
Silent tears filled her eyes. Not from sadness, but from longing.
Longing for herself.
After standing still for a few minutes, she approached the musician and left a folded bill in the cardboard box at his feet. He smiled and nodded without stopping playing.
Elisa returned the smile.
And knew, in that moment, what she would do.
She would play again.
She didn't need Eduardo's permission.
Nor anyone's approval.
------
The next day, without fanfare, Elisa did a quick search on her cell phone. She found a discreet studio in Copacabana that offered private lessons for inactive musicians—people who wanted to revive an old passion.
She scheduled her first lesson for the following week. Bought a new violin case. And in the afternoon, she went alone to retrieve her old instrument from her grandmother's house, where it had been kept.
As she held it in her hands, she felt as if she was reuniting with a part of herself that had been dormant. The smooth wood, the familiar weight, the smell of rosin. It was like coming home.
In the elevator of the penthouse, going back home, she held the case firmly. For the first time since the wedding, her eyes truly sparkled.
She wouldn't tell Eduardo. Not yet.
This was just for her.
And maybe, deep down, this was exactly what she needed: something to remind her of who she was before becoming "Eduardo Castro's wife."