Chapter 13 — The Convent of Shadows
The journey to Rio de Janeiro lasted weeks.
Without freedom.
Without explanations.
Without any possibility of turning back.
Isabel crossed entire provinces, watching the world pass by the carriage window.
Towns.
Fields.
Mountains.
Rivers.
Landscapes she had never imagined she would see.
But none of them could stir her interest.
Her heart remained bound to the southern pampas.
To the fig tree.
To Santa Vitória Ranch.
And, above all, to Bento.
When they finally reached the capital of the Empire, she felt overwhelmed by the sheer size of the city.
She had never seen anything like it.
Busy streets.
Carriages everywhere.
Ships anchored in the harbor.
Imposing buildings.
Grand churches.
An endless crowd.
Everything seemed enormous.
Loud.
Strange.
And frightening.
The convent stood in a quieter part of the city.
Enclosed by tall stone walls.
Heavy gates.
Carefully tended gardens.
It was a respected place.
Traditional.
And extremely strict.
Young women were sent there by influential families for religious education, moral discipline, or simply to be kept away from the world.
Isabel understood at once why she had been brought there.
Her father didn’t merely wish to separate her from Bento.
He wished to erase Bento from her life entirely.
The first days were dreadful.
The routine was rigid.
Waking before dawn.
Prayers.
Lessons.
Manual labor.
Silence.
More prayers.
More silence.
The hours seemed not to pass at all.
The weeks dragged on.
And the longing became almost unbearable.
Many nights she cried alone.
In silence.
Hidden beneath the blankets.
Never letting anyone notice.
Because crying was the only thing she still had left.
But time has a peculiar way of bringing people together.
Even in the most unlikely places.
That was how she came to know Sister Beatriz.
An elderly nun.
Gentle.
Observant.
Different from the others.
While many of the sisters simply followed the rules, Sister Beatriz saw beyond them.
She saw people.
She saw suffering.
She saw hearts.
And it wasn’t long before she noticed the constant sadness in that young gaúcha.
One afternoon, she found Isabel alone in the gardens.
Sitting beneath a tree.
Staring into empty space.
The nun approached slowly.
“May I sit?”
Isabel nodded.
For a few minutes they sat in silence.
Then the sister spoke.
“There is a great sorrow inside you.”
The young woman was startled.
“Is it that obvious?”
The nun smiled.
“To someone who’s lived long enough, yes.”
Isabel lowered her eyes.
“There are sorrows that can’t be healed.”
“Not even by time?”
“Especially not by time.”
The old nun studied her carefully.
“Does it have a name? Love, perhaps?”
Isabel’s eyes filled with tears.
The answer came in silence.
But it was enough.
From that day on, the two grew close.
Sister Beatriz never asked prying questions.
Never pressed her.
She simply listened.
And little by little, Isabel began to trust her.
At first she revealed small details.
Then she told her whole story.
The ranch hand.
The letters.
The war.
The discovery.
The separation.
Everything.
When she finished, the nun sat in silence for several seconds.
Then gently took her hands.
“Then you’re braver than you know.”
“Brave?”
“Yes.”
Because loving someone through all these years takes a courage few people have.
Those words became a comfort.
Perhaps the first true comfort she had received since her arrival.
Meanwhile, the war carried on far away.
Very far away.
But never absent.
News reached the convent from time to time.
Reports of battles.
Troop movements.
Clashes in the south.
Whenever she heard anything related to the Ragamuffin War, Isabel felt her heart race.
She wondered whether Bento was still alive.
Whether he was still fighting.
Whether he still remembered her.
Or whether time had finally worn him down into giving up.
The doubt was cruel.
Perhaps crueler than the distance itself.
On one especially difficult night, she found herself praying in the empty chapel.
Candles cast a dim light over the room.
The silence felt absolute.
And then something occurred to her.
She didn’t know if Bento was alive.
Didn’t know if he’d received her last letters.
Didn’t even know if he knew where she was.
But there was one thing she could still do.
She had to try to send word to him.
Any word at all.
However slim the chance.
In the days that followed, she began thinking of ways to make it happen.
The task seemed impossible.
All correspondence was watched.
All outside communication was controlled.
The convent functioned almost like an elegant prison.
But not entirely.
Because there was one small opening.
One single possibility.
Once a month, licensed merchants delivered supplies to the convent.
Cloth.
Candles.
Books.
Medicines.
Among them was a man named Joaquim Tavares.
An elderly Portuguese merchant.
Respected by the sisters.
A regular visitor to the convent.
Sister Beatriz had known him for many years.
And it was she who first introduced Isabel to the merchant.
With no particular purpose at first.
But the young woman saw an opportunity.
Perhaps the only one she would ever have.
For weeks she watched.
Waited.
Planned.
Until at last she gathered her courage.
On a rainy morning, she asked to speak with Joaquim.
The merchant agreed.
Assuming it was some ordinary matter.
When he heard her full story, he was struck.
Moved.
“My child…”
“I just need him to know I’m alive.”
Her eyes shone.
Full of hope.
“That’s all.”
Nothing more.
The old Portuguese man fell silent.
Thoughtful.
He knew he’d be taking a risk.
Knew he’d be defying the will of a powerful man.
But he also knew a great love when he saw one.
At last he nodded.
“I’ll do what I can.”
That very night, Isabel wrote her first letter in nearly three years.
Her hands trembled.
Tears fell onto the page.
But the words came.
Strong.
Necessary.
Urgent.
“My beloved Bento,
If this letter reaches you, it will be a miracle.
I was taken to a convent in Rio de Janeiro.
I am alive.
I never stopped loving you.
Never stopped thinking of you.
All these years I have looked up at the stars, imagining you doing the same.
I don’t know if you’re still at war.
I don’t know if you’re well.
I don’t even know if these words will reach you.
But I had to try.
I had to tell you I’m still waiting.
Still believing.
Still yours.
With all the love in my heart,
Isabel.”
When she finished, she carefully folded the pages.
Kissed the paper.
And handed it to Joaquim.
With tears in her eyes.
And hope in her heart.
Days later, the letter began its long journey.
Along roads.
Through ports.
By way of messengers.
Past military camps.
Across provinces.
An uncertain path.
Dangerous.
Perhaps impossible.
But real, all the same.
For the first time in years, there was a chance.
Small.
Remote.
But real.
A chance that Bento would learn the truth.
That he would know where she was.
That their love was not lost.
That same night, thousands of miles away, Bento sat watching the stars before a dying campfire.
Without knowing why, he felt something different.
A sudden hope.
A feeling hard to explain.
As though fate had finally begun moving in his direction.
As though, after so many years of darkness, a distant light had appeared on the horizon.
Still very faint.
Still very far away.
But real.
And that light had a name.
Isabel.