47.
DANTE FERRAZ
Aurora said she loved me.
Not during a crisis.
Not after a gunshot.
Not while crying.
Sitting on the sofa inside my house, with the box that should have changed our lives four years earlier open on the table.
I did not sleep that night.
Aurora did.
After we made love, she fell asleep with her head on my chest.
I remained looking at the ceiling.
Not because I feared touching her.
Not from vigilance.
From gratitude.
And from an almost unbearable desire to ask her to marry me.
I did not.
She had just shared her most painful memory.
Turning it into a proposal would steal the moment.
I had learned.
The following morning, Tomás found the tiny shoes.
“Whose?”
Aurora froze.
So did I.
He held one in each hand.
“They belonged to you,” she answered.
“Don’t fit.”
“Not now.”
Elisa approached.
“Baby ones?”
“For when you were born,” I explained.
“Three feet?”
“We bought—no. Your mother bought one pair when she believed there was one baby.”
Cecília counted.
“Two shoes. Three children.”
“I discovered later,” Aurora said.
“And bought more?”
She hesitated.
“Not those.”
The shoes had never been worn.
They had remained symbols.
“Why?” Elisa asked.
Children.
“Because that pair was part of a surprise that never happened,” I answered.
Aurora looked at me.
“Daddy ruined it?” Tomás asked.
An age-appropriate truth.
“I did.”
“Was silly.”
“Very.”
“Now give new baby.”
The air stopped.
“There is no new baby,” Aurora answered.
“Later.”
“We don’t know.”
Tomás placed the shoes on the table.
“Keep.”
“We’ll keep them,” I said.
The box was moved to a high shelf in the office.
Not hidden.
Protected.
The purchase of the neighboring house was completed weeks later.
We signed together.
Aurora paid a deposit.
I paid the remainder.
Ownership was divided according to investment, but decisions were equal.
My lawyer attempted to argue.
“Mr. Ferraz, the proportion…”
“Equal decisions.”
“But the capital…”
“Does not determine authority within a family.”
He became silent.
Aurora heard.
Outside, she kissed my face.
“You did well.”
“Reward?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
The renovation began.
The children wore toy helmets and claimed they were supervising.
Elisa said where she wanted her room.
Tomás wanted a small door “only for dinosaur.”
Cecília asked for a window to see the moon.
Aurora evaluated wood, structure, and finishes.
I attempted not to accelerate anything.
Difficult.
“The work can be finished in four months,” I said.
“If you respect drying time, wood, and inspections, six.”
“We can increase the staff.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“More people do not make materials dry faster.”
“Heaters.”
“No.”
“Dehumidifiers.”
“In certain areas.”
“Then five months.”
“Six.”
“Five and a half.”
“You do not negotiate with a wall.”
“Everything is negotiable.”
“That is what went wrong with your father’s collection.”
I stopped.
“Low blow.”
“It worked.”
Six months.
I accepted.
During that period, we maintained both houses.
Some nights together.
Others separately.
The children began seeing a child psychologist.
The first appointment was with Aurora and me.
The psychologist explained that Cecília displayed heightened separation anxiety, but that it was consistent with the recent changes and threats.
“We do not need to turn it into a disease,” she said.
Aurora relaxed.
“What do we do?” I asked.
“Predictable routine. Simple warnings. Books about separation and return. Do not promise the impossible. Permit comfort objects. Avoid adult conversations in front of them.”
Everything we were already attempting.
“And the fact that I disappeared before they were born?” I asked.
“They understand it only partially. They do not need the details of the conflict. They can know their father made a wrong decision, stayed away, and now works to remain present.”
“Does that soften it too much?” Aurora asked.
“For children who are three, almost four, it is sufficient. The story can gain complexity as they grow.”
Cecília’s sessions used play.
Elisa wanted to participate because the toys were better.
Tomás asked whether psychologists used needles.
They did not.
He accepted.
The improvement came slowly.
Cecília continued asking when I would return.
But she accepted calendars containing drawings.
One moon for each night away.
A sun for the day we would meet again.
I liked them too.
Inside my planner, I replaced lists with drawings made by the children.
The Ferraz Group’s board approved my new position.
Pérola remained executive president.
I took responsibility for a transformation and integrity council.
Less daily power.
More strategic responsibility.
Part of my salary was reduced.
It did not matter.
My fortune remained absurd.
But the symbolic change was real.
For the first time, a meeting could continue without me.
I learned.
A little.
We did not mark the four-month anniversary of my return.
Elisa did.
“Daddy lives town long,” she said.
“How long?” I asked.
“One hundred.”
“Days?”
“Years.”
“No.”
“Then a lot.”
She wanted a calendar.
We made one.
At the calendar’s inauguration, Tomás drew a shoe on the first day.
Cecília added stones.
Elisa drew five figures.
None was distant now.
Aurora saw.
She did not stiffen.
She kissed my cheek.
“Progress,” I said.
“Do not turn a drawing into an evaluation.”
“All right.”
The investigation against Otávio continued.
The agreement guaranteed a reduced sentence, but he would still remain in prison for many years.
Aurora decided not to visit him again.
“I do not need more answers,” she said.
“Are you certain?”
“Some answers become new questions. I have enough.”
“And forgiveness?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“I don’t know. But I do not need it in order to move forward.”
I learned forgiveness was not an obligation.
Not even for me.
Aurora forgave me unevenly.
Some days, she touched my scar and said she trusted me.
On others, an old article or photograph of the altar made her retreat.
One night, we arrived at a reception connected to the foundation.
A church stood in the background.
Aurora stopped.
Her entire body stiffened.
“Would you like to leave?” I asked.
“No.”
“Would you like to enter?”
“No.”
“Then we remain here.”
“I do not want this controlling me.”
“It isn’t. You chose to stop.”
She breathed.
“The altar.”
“I know.”
“I still see it.”
“So do I.”
“Sometimes when I think about marriage, I see you removing the ring.”
My heart tightened.
“I will not propose while that image remains larger.”
Aurora looked at me.
“You’re thinking about proposing?”
I would not lie.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you already bought a ring?”
I stopped.
She noticed.
“Dante.”
“I bought one.”
“Of course.”
“I wasn’t planning to ask now.”
“Where is it?”
“In a safe.”
“Since when?”
“After you said you loved me.”
“That was three weeks ago.”
“Yes.”
“Very fast.”
“The ring does not force a proposal.”
“To you, it feels like a plan.”
“It is a possibility.”
Aurora closed her eyes.
“I do not know whether I can enter a church.”
“We do not need one.”
“Or a large ceremony.”
“I don’t want one.”
“And if I never want a legal marriage?”
The question hurt.
“I stay.”
“Really?”
“I suffer, but I stay if our relationship is good.”
She touched my hand.
“I want to marry one day.”
My heart stopped.
“You do?”
“Maybe.”
“Aurora.”
“Do not use it.”
“All right.”
“But I need another memory.”
“We’ll build one.”
I did not know how.
I did not want a public altar.
Or spectacle.
Perhaps a small ceremony.
Perhaps no altar.
I waited.
The house advanced.
So did the museum.
Recovered pieces arrived under escort.
Aurora cried while opening the crates.
I stood behind her.
Not touching until she asked.
A painting belonging to her mother.
A religious image her father had restored.
Stolen objects returning.
“They have marks,” she said.
“From transportation?”
“Time. Bad interventions.”
“Can they be restored?”
“Some.”
“Like us?”
She smiled.
“Do not use everything.”
“I’m sorry.”
At the end of the fifth month, the house was almost ready.
Bedrooms.
Office.
Family room.
An internal passage through the backyard.
We preserved Second Layer’s facade.
The children named the new house before any sign was installed.
“Moon Dino Princess House,” Elisa declared.
“Too long,” I said.
“It’s name.”
“It does not fit on a document.”
“You talk hard.”
Aurora decided the house would remain unnamed.
The move happened gradually.
First clothes.
Then toys.
Books.
My desk.
My planner.
The cups already existed.
On the first official night, the children ran through the rooms.
Cecília opened the window.
The moon was visible.
“It came.”
“It was always there,” Aurora said.
Tomás tested the small door built into the wardrobe.
Not for him to enter.
To store dinosaurs.
Elisa arranged her crowns.
I carried suitcases.
Aurora remained in the backyard.
She looked at the two houses joined together.
I approached.
“Do you regret it?”
“Is there still time to undo it?”
“Structurally, expensive.”
She laughed.
“No.”
“Afraid?”
“Very.”
“Of what?”
“Depending.”
“You can continue having money, work, property, and choices.”
“It is not only material.”
“I know.”
“Waking up accustomed to you.”
“I’m afraid too.”
“Of what?”
“Waking and discovering you’re leaving.”
Aurora looked at me.
“I said I would choose you today.”
“And tomorrow is another choice.”
“Exactly.”
“Then do you choose today?”
She took my hand.
“I do.”
We entered.
The children celebrated in the hallway.
That night, we slept in the same bedroom.
The first time inside a house belonging to all five.
Without hiding.
Without needing to explain.
Elisa came in at five forty.
Tomás at five forty-two.
Cecília at five forty-three.
All three climbed onto the bed.
Aurora opened her eyes.
“Why?”
“Our house,” Elisa answered.
As if that explained everything.
Tomás lay over my arm.
Cecília between us.
Elisa at our feet.
There was no room.
“Will this happen every day?” I asked.
Aurora closed her eyes.
“Probably.”
“We need a larger bed.”
“No.”
“Objectively.”
“They are returning to their beds.”
No one moved.
They fell asleep.
Aurora touched my hand over Cecília.
“Our house,” she whispered.
My heart tightened.
“Ours.”
I already had the ring.
But I would not ask.
Not yet.
We needed to live.
To build a memory of home before another promise.
I could wait.
Cecília had taught me.
Waiting was also staying.