50.
AURORA VALEN?A
One year after Dante returned to Santa Brígida, the Valen?a Museum welcomed its first group of children from the municipal school.
Elisa, Cecília, and Tomás were among them.
They were four years and seven months old.
Still small.
Still loud.
Still convinced every exhibition needed a dinosaur.
“Is there stolen painting?” Tomás asked in front of the teacher.
“Recovered,” I corrected.
“But was stolen before.”
“Yes.”
“Then I said right.”
Elisa wore a badge reading JUNIOR GUIDE, although she could not read all of it.
She recognized her name.
She attempted to explain the pieces.
“This painting is old. Very old. Older than Daddy.”
Dante, standing at the back, heard her.
“Thank you.”
“You’re old.”
“Your mother is aging too.”
“Less.”
Cecília walked close to the wall.
The museum still contained sounds that bothered her.
But there was a quiet room created for visitors sensitive to noise.
She helped choose the cushions and lighting.
When necessary, she entered it.
That day, she remained with the group.
She carried a small stone in her pocket.
Dante’s original stone remained in a box at home.
He still carried it on important occasions.
At the wedding, it had been inside the inner pocket of his suit.
The house belonging to all five was finished.
The passage between the buildings was the children’s favorite place.
They called it a tunnel.
It was not.
Tomás insisted.
Dante kept his office on the upper floor.
I remained inside Second Layer.
The connecting door allowed him to appear with coffee.
Sometimes too often.
“I’m working,” I would say.
“I brought it hot.”
“It will become cold.”
“I know.”
“Then leave it.”
Some habits did not change.
Others changed greatly.
Dante learned to end meetings to collect the children.
I learned to accept his trips.
He continued therapy.
I began mine.
Not because I was broken.
Because survival had created patterns.
Control.
Hypervigilance.
Fear of dependence.
We spoke.
Sometimes argued.
Loudly.
The children asked.
We explained that disagreement did not mean the end.
One evening, after an argument about one of Dante’s trips, Cecília appeared.
“You separate?”
My heart tightened.
Dante crouched.
“We are not planning to.”
“But fought.”
“Couples fight.”
“Mommy told go.”
I had said, “Then go,” in anger.
A mistake.
“I said it without meaning the end,” I admitted.
“That is not good,” Dante said.
He did not protect me from the consequence.
“It isn’t.”
“Say sorry,” Cecília instructed.
“I’m sorry.”
Dante looked at me.
“I accept. But we need to finish the conversation.”
“After they sleep.”
“All right.”
Cecília relaxed.
We learned in front of them too.
Not perfection.
Repair.
The criminal case ended.
My innocence was formally recognized.
The state issued an institutional apology for errors in the investigation.
I received a document.
Stored it in the museum archives.
Not on the wall.
I knew who I was before the paper.
But the record mattered.
The pieces continued returning.
Some would never be found.
We created clearly identified replicas.
Empty spaces containing stories.
We did not pretend to be complete.
The Ferraz Group stabilized.
Pérola managed better than Dante in several respects.
He admitted it.
With difficulty.
“She makes decisions without me,” he complained once.
“That is her job.”
“I know.”
“It bothers you.”
“Very.”
“Endure it.”
He endured.
Our marriage did not become a story without conflict.
Dante still attempted to fix things.
I still interpreted suggestions as control.
He remained jealous of Miguel.
I continued asking too many questions about travel.
But now we stopped.
Named it.
Corrected it.
The children grew inside that.
On their fifth birthday, they received a smaller party.
My choice.
Dante attempted to negotiate.
He lost.
Elisa requested skates.
Tomás, a dog.
Cecília, a telescope.
They received a shared telescope, skates with protective equipment, and a promise that we would consider a dog.
Tomás considered it injustice.
“Telescope doesn’t bark.”
“Exactly,” I said.
The dog arrived three months later.
A rescue.
Small.
Mixed breed.
Elisa wanted to name her Princess.
Tomás, Dino.
Cecília, Moon.
After three days of arguing, the name became Luna.
Tomás continued calling her Dino.
On the morning of our first wedding anniversary, I woke before everyone.
Dante slept.
His ring on his hand.
He had never removed it.
I touched it.
He opened his eyes.
“Good morning.”
“One year.”
“I know.”
“Did you prepare something?”
“No.”
A lie.
“Dante.”
“Something small.”
“What?”
“Dinner.”
“Where?”
“At home.”
“How many people?”
“Five.”
“Good.”
“And Mrs. Lurdes.”
“Six.”
“Miguel.”
“Seven.”
“Marta.”
“Dante.”
“They participated.”
“That is a party.”
“Dinner.”
I laughed.
“It does not change the definition.”
“A little.”
The celebration happened in the backyard.
Lights.
A table.
The children made cards.
Elisa wrote the E from her name and several scribbles.
Tomás drew a shoe.
Cecília drew a moon and five figures.
Dante handed me a present.
A small box.
My body reacted.
Not the white one.
Another.
Inside was a restored photograph.
My parents.
Me at seventeen.
Otávio removed from the digital version, as planned.
On the back, my father’s letter reproduced in facsimile.
Institutions exist to serve people. Not the other way around.
I cried.
“Thank you.”
“The original is in the archives.”
“Perfect.”
I gave him my present.
A frame containing Elisa’s drawing from the planner.
The five figures side by side.
Beside it, the first painting where the black line stood far away.
“Readable history,” I said.
Dante touched it.
“You did not erase it.”
“No.”
“But it moved closer.”
“She moved it.”
The children came to see.
Elisa said she drew better now.
Tomás claimed the largest figure represented him.
Did Cecília find the stone glued to it?
No.
I would never glue it.
Dante removed it from his pocket.
“You still have it,” she said.
“Always.”
That night, after everyone left and the children slept, we sat in the backyard.
“Happy?” I asked.
“Very.”
“Do you regret coming back?”
He looked at me.
“Never.”
“Not even the shooting, board, chaos?”
“The shooting, yes. Returning, no.”
“Better.”
“And you? Do you regret letting me in?”
I thought.
“Sometimes, when you snore.”
“I do not snore.”
“A great deal.”
“Lie.”
“The children confirm.”
“Conspiracy.”
I rested my head on his shoulder.
“No.”
“What?”
“I do not regret it.”
Dante kissed my hair.
The moon appeared above the roof.
Luna slept near the door.
The museum was open.
The studio operating.
The two houses had become one.
Our children were five years old, healthy, in school, with a present father and mother.
I had my name back.
But it was not the old name.
It belonged to me differently now.
Aurora Valen?a.
Restorer.
Director.
Mother.
Wife.
Woman.
No part erased another.
“I have something,” Dante said.
My body went alert.
“What?”
He removed an envelope from his pocket.
“It isn’t a proposal.”
“We are already married.”
“Exactly.”
I opened it.
Tickets for a three-day trip.
Only us.
“And the children?”
“Mrs. Lurdes, Marta, and a recommended nanny.”
“Three days?”
“We can make it two.”
“Where?”
“The mountains.”
The chalet from the memory of the rain.
“The same one?”
“Another. I did not want to invade that memory.”
The gentleness.
“When?”
“One month from now.”
“You already purchased them.”
“Refundable.”
“You learned.”
“A great deal.”
I thought.
Three days away.
Once impossible.
Now frightening.
Possible.
“I accept.”
Dante smiled.
“Don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“You won.”
“I didn’t win.”
“It looks like it.”
“You chose.”
Yes.
I chose.
Every day.
During the trip, we called the children twice a day.
Cecília did not cry.
Tomás asked about the dog.
Elisa requested a present.
Dante and I walked in the rain.
We entered the chalet soaked.
That time, no one was alone.
We made love before the fireplace.
Laughed.
Slept late.
When we returned, three children ran toward us.
Luna barked.
Mrs. Lurdes complained that Tomás had attempted to sleep with the dog in his bed.
The house welcomed the noise back.
Dante embraced me from behind.
“Happily ever after?” he asked.
I looked at the chaos.
Elisa talking.
Tomás running.
Cecília holding the cloth, although she used it less.
Luna stealing a sock.
“Forever is a very long time.”
“True.”
“Today, yes.”
Dante kissed my face.
“Today is enough.”
It was.
And when the following day came, we would choose again.