Unique

The Passengers Who Never Got Off

The first time Marta Amaral saw a child grow old inside a bus, she attributed it to the lighting. It was shortly after midnight, rain was falling on Santa Amélia, and the boy, who had boarded at about seven years old, got off looking forty, carrying on his face the annoyance of someone who had recently discovered the existence of installment payments and income tax. Before leaving, he thanked her for the ride, examined his own baldness with some embarrassment, and asked if Marta knew a barbershop open at that hour. She pointed him to Seu Osvaldo's establishment, near the Cemitério Novo square, though she wasn't sure it was still open. For the rest of the route, she wondered if this required any action. She concluded it did not. The passenger had paid, hadn't caused any trouble, and above all, had had the decency not to age on the seat.

That had happened seventeen years earlier, when she took over the last shift on line 86. Since then, Marta had learned that the nights had a population of their own, considerably less interested in being understood than in reaching certain places before dawn. She knew passengers who brought flowers to dead people, dead people who brought flowers to others still living, and a lady who carried a pot of violets whose soil never dried out, even when it went weeks without water. She also knew Nina, a girl in a school uniform who had been boarding since Marta's first night on the line without showing any visible progress in her education or physical development. Marta had never asked her age. She considered it rude to demand information from someone that their own appearance seemed determined to hide.

The official route crossed Santa Amélia from west to east, following the industrial area until it reached the Cemitério Novo square. The unofficial route began under the Pedreira overpass, between two concrete columns that the city hall had painted yellow in a revitalization campaign, an initiative whose main result had been to allow residents to observe the structure's deterioration more clearly. After the columns, the rain usually stopped, the avenues gave way to low houses and old trees, and the road continued along an expanse that no one had managed to satisfactorily include on any map.

The residents called that place the In-Between.

It was neither deserted nor particularly solemn. It had a bakery whose oven had been buried in the 1978 flood and continued producing hot bread, a barbershop frequented by men who had waited so long they had lost their hair, and a square where residents discussed soccer, food prices, and the increasingly unsatisfactory quality of young people. There were weddings, small infidelities, unpleasant families, and children who played hide-and-seek with a disturbing competence. One of them, according to what Marta had heard, had stayed hidden for twenty-three years and returned home quite upset to discover that her siblings had grown up without looking for her.

On the first trip, the previous driver handed her the keys, looked at her a little longer than the gesture required, and explained that she should go as far as the house of bells, turn around, and never allow a passenger from the In-Between to get off on the common side of the overpass. Agenor was a thin man, smoked unfiltered cigarettes, and had a long scar on his throat, plus half his tongue, which he had lost on an occasion no one wished to discuss. Marta had asked the reason for the prohibition. He stubbed out his cigarette, examined the burnt tip, and replied that people usually wanted to go back home, even when they no longer had one, and that certain forms of hospitality ended up forcing the neighbors to move away.

The answer seemed obscure to her, a characteristic Marta associated with older men when they wished to hide some information or simply didn't know what they were talking about. Despite this, she obeyed. There was something about that route that recommended caution, and Marta had a fairly practical relationship with the unknown: as long as it didn't interfere with the steering, the payment, or the integrity of the doors, she was willing to tolerate almost anything.

On the last Thursday of October, the company announced the closure of the line.

The supervisor, a young man whose perfectly trimmed beard seemed to consume a disproportionate share of his capacity for concentration, explained that demand did not justify maintaining the schedule. Marta asked what would happen to the passengers who lived beyond the Pedreira. The young man opened a map, pointed to an unoccupied region, and assured her that no one lived there. Marta examined the paper. It was a well-printed, colorful document, quite convincing in appearance, and it had the advantage of not having to deal personally with the people it had decided to exclude.

— So that's why no one complains — she replied.

The young man seemed satisfied. Marta finished her coffee before he could explain the situation again, for she was already fifty-five years old and had begun to consider her own patience a natural resource threatened with extinction.

She lived in a small apartment on the third floor of a building whose main quality was remaining standing despite the renovations carried out by the residents. The kitchen sink had been dripping for three weeks, the refrigerator made a noise similar to a person grumbling in their sleep, and her daughter, Lia, called almost daily to find out if her mother had eaten anything besides coffee and cassava starch biscuits. Lia was twenty-seven, worked at a dental clinic, and could identify by tone of voice, with unpleasant precision, when Marta was lying about having had lunch. That afternoon, she had sent a message inviting her for Sunday. She intended to make lasagna, a recipe she had executed twice with results dubious enough to turn the third attempt into an event accompanied by some family apprehension.

Marta accepted, recommended that she use less salt, and received in response the information that women incapable of sautéing garlic without burning it should abstain from culinary advice. She put the phone away smiling, though she considered the remark unfair. She had burned garlic on a few occasions, naturally, but always for reasons she deemed perfectly understandable.

For many years, the two of them had lived alone. Neusa, Marta's mother, had died twenty-three years earlier, after a hospitalization during which she had spent her final days asking if anyone was taking care of her violets. Lia was small at that time and retained sparse memories of her grandmother, almost all related to the kitchen, a sewing box, and a deeply ingrained belief that onions cut into large pieces betrayed some character deficiency. Marta had kept the sewing box, some photographs, and a patterned dress she had never had the courage to donate. Sometimes she thought she would forget her mother's voice. Other times she heard it with such clarity that she almost turned around to answer.

That night, she boarded the bus at 11:40 p.m. It had been raining since early afternoon, and water streamed down the windows, distorting the signs of the establishments and the faces of the passengers. The vehicle was a yellow Mercedes, old, with blue plastic seats and a permanent tilt to the left. Above the windshield was a crucifix, though Marta was of the opinion that Jesus Christ had faced enough difficulties in life to still need to accompany Santa Amélia's public transportation. Next to the dashboard, she kept mint candies, a screwdriver, and a photograph of Lia at eight years old, dressed as a witch, smiling with the satisfaction of someone who had discovered that adults handed out candy when properly threatened.

The first passengers boarded near downtown. A nursing assistant fell asleep before the second corner; two men argued about soccer without enough information to support any opinion; a woman carried a birthday cake, protecting it from the vehicle's movements with a dedication Marta wished she could find among those responsible for paving the city. After the Cemitério Novo square, only the usual travelers remained.

Seu Américo occupied the second seat, his hat resting on his knees. Dona Zuleide held on her lap a cage covered by a dark velvet cloth, from which occasionally came a noise similar to nails scraping wood. Nina drew circles on the fogged-up window. A couple discussed the sale of a residence whose owners had died in different decades but continued living together in the same living room. Marta knew almost all of them. They were, for the most part, polite people, especially when compared to the passengers returning from bars in the early hours of the morning.

As they crossed the overpass, the rain stopped.

The road emerged between two rows of trees. There were lights in the houses, the smell of burning wood, and a low mist drifting across the yards. Marta slowed down in front of the bakery. The baker was talking to a woman holding a baby, and both raised their hands when the bus passed. In the barbershop, two old men were engaged in a game of dominoes while a third slept under a chair, wrapped in a blanket. The street continued to a small square where children were still playing, though the church clock permanently read eight twenty.

It was Nina who asked about the closure of the line.

The girl approached the cabin with her red backpack pressed against her chest. She had shoulder-length brown hair, faint freckles, and knees too long for her school uniform. Marta had known her long enough to distinguish her expressions, and that night she found on her face a worry she had never observed before.

— Dona Marta, is it really ending tomorrow?

— The schedule is ending. I'm still working, I'm just going to another line.

Nina looked at the passengers, then at the road, where the houses were beginning to grow more distant.

— And us?

Marta didn't know how to answer. She had always imagined that those people had other ways of getting home. Some worked, visited relatives, carried birthday presents, or went out to buy medicine. She had never considered that the bus could be as important to the existence of that place as it was to the lives of those who inhabited it.

Seu Américo raised his eyes.

— We'll talk about that later, Nina. Dona Marta still needs to drive.

The girl remained next to the cabin.

— I wanted to see the sea again.

Marta observed her through the mirror.

— You've seen it?

— When I was little. I remember the sand getting into my shoe. My mother got mad because I brought half the beach home.

— And how long ago was that?

Nina hesitated. She seemed to be counting something mentally, but gave up before finishing.

— A long time.

She returned to her seat and took a notebook from her backpack. Marta followed her movement for a few seconds, bothered by an inexplicable sense of familiarity. There was something in that face, perhaps in the way she furrowed her brow or held her backpack, that seemed to belong to an old memory, though she couldn't decide which.

It was after the Amoreiras curve that she saw the woman in the blue dress.

She was alone, next to a leaning pole, holding a supermarket bag. Her dark hair was stuck to her face, even though it wasn't raining on that stretch, and she had an expression Marta recognized immediately: that of people who have spent too long waiting for someone and have begun to suspect that the world has forgotten its commitment. When the bus appeared, she raised her hand and stepped into the middle of the road.

Seu Américo stood up before Marta could reach the brake.

— Don't stop.

The driver examined him through the mirror.

— She's signaling.

— I saw. Keep going.

But the woman was already in front of the vehicle. Marta braked, opened the door, and watched her climb aboard almost tripping on the steps. Her eyes were red, there were recent scratches on her arms, and a smell of rotting flowers spread through the aisle. She searched for a coin inside the bag, dropped something on the floor, and murmured an apology.

Her name was Raquel. For a few months, she had boarded with a small boy who carried a collection of plastic toy cars. Then she had disappeared, and Marta had assumed she had moved, an explanation generally satisfactory for the absence of almost all people.

— Where's Tomás?

Raquel stopped searching for coins. She looked at the driver with an expression of astonishment, as if the question had been formulated in a language she had known during childhood and had spent decades trying to forget.

— He's the reason I'm here. I need to go back home.

Seu Américo approached the cabin.

— Raquel, you know you can't get off on the other side.

The woman stared at him with a resentment so intense that Marta felt like interrupting the discussion even before she understood its nature.

— My son is six years old, Américo. Six. For forty-two years. His teeth fall out and grow back, his clothes rot before they get too small, he learns to write his own name and then forgets what letters are for. Do you think I haven't tried to live with that?

— Tomás is being cared for.

— He's being kept where no child should remain. — Raquel pressed the bag against her chest, and a small package of cookies burst inside. — Yesterday he told me he had found a house. He said there was a room for him and that he could grow if I came to get him. Today I woke up and couldn't find him. I looked at the school, the square, the houses where he usually plays. A lady said she saw him near the road, waiting for someone who hadn't arrived yet.

Dona Zuleide tightened the cloth over the cage. From inside came a sharp thud, so strong that Marta heard it above the engine.

— Who showed the house to the boy? — asked Américo.

Raquel looked away.

— I don't know.

The old man remained in front of her. His face, usually serene, now had the expression Marta had seen on doctors when she asked if Neusa would leave the hospital: not exactly fear, but the perception that something had already happened and that no explanation could make it less serious.

— Sit down, Raquel. Let's talk to Eulália.

The woman began to cry. Tears streamed silently as she looked for a seat, and Marta noticed that her dress was wet to the knees. She seemed to have walked for hours.

The trip continued to the house of bells. Marta made the turn and began crossing the streets of the In-Between again. Raquel remained near the door, with the bag resting on her lap, watching the road through a gap between the passengers. Seu Américo tried to talk to her, but the woman answered only when he asked her something directly. As they approached the overpass, she stood up.

— It's on the first street after the passage — she informed. — Near the church.

— You can't get off — repeated the old man.

— My son is there.

— You don't know who's waiting.

Raquel turned to him.

— It's very easy to say that when it's not your son.

Marta looked in the mirror. She didn't like the tone of the discussion, especially because everyone seemed to know information they considered improper to share with the only person responsible for driving the vehicle. When they crossed the overpass columns, the rain began falling on Santa Amélia again. She recognized the scrap metal yard, the pharmacy, and the long wall of the old paint factory.

There was a boy on the sidewalk.

He wore green pajamas, was barefoot, and protected his head from the rain with both hands. When he saw the bus, he raised his face and smiled. Marta knew the scar above his chin.

— Tomás! — shouted Raquel.

The boy ran to the gate of a blue house that Marta had never seen before. The house had two stories, an iron porch, and yellow curtains. On the wall, a plaque informed the construction date: 1983. It was an old house, with peeling paint near the windows, though Marta remembered perfectly the empty lot that had occupied that place on the previous trip.

Seu Américo grabbed her arm.

— Don't open.

Marta looked at the boy, who continued waving in the rain, then at Raquel, whose expression had acquired a hope so desperate that the driver felt ashamed to hesitate.

— If there's a child out there, I'm opening.

— Dona Marta, listen...

— Then explain it to me!

The old man brought his face close to hers. There was something moist in his eyes, a restlessness that seemed to go beyond the fate of that single passenger.

— When one of us leaves here to stay in your world, they need to find where they fit. Sometimes the place is empty. Almost never is.

Marta looked again at the house. The boy had stopped waving. He remained in front of the gate, smiling with a patience that was beginning to seem unpleasant.

— Then someone will have to squeeze in — she replied, reaching for the lever.

The old man grabbed her wrist.

— I'm not talking about the bus.

Marta opened the door.

Raquel ran down. She crossed the sidewalk, knelt in front of Tomás, and began kissing his hair. The boy hugged her with a joy Marta knew, for Lia used to do the same when she was little and spent too long waiting for her mother to return from work. For a few moments, the scene seemed so ordinary that Américo's worry sounded ridiculous.

Then the pharmacy disappeared.

Marta blinked. Where there had been a lit store, a church with a narrow tower appeared, its stained-glass windows lit and a garden enclosed by railings. The factory wall now ended two blocks earlier than she remembered. There were people in the windows of the blue house, photographs hanging on the porch, and a man crossing the gate with an umbrella, apparently interested in knowing why his neighbor was kneeling in the rain.

Américo slowly released the driver's wrist.

— Now it's done.

Marta didn't answer. She closed the door, continued to the terminal, and put the bus away shortly after one in the morning. Before getting off, she found on the first step a small puddle of dark water, mixed with fragments of something white. They could be petals, if petals had joints.

She cleaned the floor with a cloth.

When she arrived at the apartment, her mother was peeling an orange.

Neusa Amaral remained seated at the kitchen table, wearing a patterned dress and rubber slippers. Her hair was tied in a low bun, she had a small stain near her nose, and the expression of someone who had been waiting long enough to begin preparing a reprimand. She removed the peel in a continuous strip, without interrupting the movement of the knife. The smell of fresh orange filled the entire kitchen.

— You're late — she said, before Marta could open her mouth. — The rice is on the stove, but I'm not going to heat it up. I have better things to do than wait for an old woman to come home.

Marta remained by the door.

She knew that dress. She had chosen the outfit for the funeral because Neusa liked it and had no other in good condition. She also recognized the small knife, the way her mother rested her elbow on the table, and the impatient gesture with which she removed the white strands stuck to her bun.

— Mom?

Neusa raised an eyebrow.

— Who else would it be, Marta? The Queen of England?

The keys fell from the driver's hand.

Neusa continued peeling the orange, now with a worried expression. She asked if Marta was feeling unwell, if someone had hit the bus, and if she needed to call a neighbor. The daughter felt an almost childish urge to run to her, to kneel beside the chair and hide her face in her lap. For twenty-three years, she had imagined what it would be like to hear her complain about something unimportant again. The possibility was before her, so concrete that it was almost offensive.

— Where's Lia? — she asked.

The knife stopped.

Neusa examined her daughter's face.

— Who?

— My daughter. Lia.

The old woman placed the orange on the table.

— Marta, you don't have a daughter.

The driver took the phone from her pocket. She searched for Lia's contact and found only a sequence of numbers without a name. The messages exchanged that afternoon remained in the conversation, but now only her replies were visible, separated by empty spaces. The young woman's photograph had disappeared from the device's screen. In the place where Lia's face should have been, there was only a gray circle.

She called.

An automated voice informed her that the number did not exist.

Neusa stood up, still holding the knife.

— My daughter, sit down a bit. You're pale.

Marta stepped back.

Not out of fear of the blade, but because that gesture was her mother's concern, the same one she had spent so many years wanting back. Neusa still had her fingers wet with orange juice, looking at her, waiting for her to finally explain why she had entered the house as if she had found a corpse.

Marta began to cry.

Her mother placed the knife on the sink, wiped her hands on a cloth, and hugged her. She had the same smell of anise soap, the same warmth in her hands, and a slight difficulty breathing when she got emotional. Everything was there. The last twenty-three years had been replaced by a living woman, with back pain, white hair, and a shopping list stuck to the refrigerator.

Marta let herself be hugged for a few seconds.

Then she pulled away.

— I have a daughter, Mom. She's twenty-seven. Her name is Lia.

Neusa examined her with a sadness Marta had known since childhood, when her mother wanted to help her and didn't know where to start.

— My daughter, you never had children.

That dawn, Marta searched the apartment for any trace of her daughter. She found clothes she didn't recognize, photographs of trips she had never taken, and a room turned into a storage area, where Lia's books should have been, a closet full of clothes, and a collection of small trinkets that her daughter considered indispensable. Her own body retained incompatible memories: there was a scar on her abdomen, a result of the cesarean section, but Neusa claimed it was from surgery performed many years earlier.

The two stayed awake until almost dawn. Her mother made coffee, offered cookies, asked if Marta was taking her blood pressure medication correctly, and recounted events the daughter didn't remember. There was a trip to the coast, a birthday party, and a man named Osvaldo who, apparently, had been Marta's boyfriend for six years. Neusa didn't like him. She described his shortcomings with such offensive precision that Marta almost smiled, though she didn't remember him, except perhaps a similar fellow who had sold her a refrigerator.

At six in the morning, she left the house.

The street of the Aroeiras was exactly as she had found it the night before. The church remained next to the pharmacy, the blue house occupied the empty lot, and a woman was sweeping the sidewalk, interrupting the work now and then to complain about the leaves falling from her neighbor's tree.

Raquel opened the door in dry clothes, a mug of coffee in her hand. Upon seeing Marta, she stepped aside to let her in.

— You came.

— Where is my daughter?

The woman lowered her eyes.

— I don't know.

Marta took a step forward. The hallway was narrow, decorated with photographs. Raquel appeared in some of them alongside Tomás, now surrounded by schoolmates, neighbors, and relatives Marta had never seen. There were birthday portraits, a trip to the coast, and an old photograph of the house, taken when the street trees were smaller. There was wear on the older portraits and dust behind the frames.

— You knew someone was going to disappear.

Raquel set the mug on a small table.

— I knew it could happen.

— My daughter is twenty-seven.

— Mine is six. For forty-two years.

Marta looked at the hallway. Tomás appeared near the stairs, holding a red toy car. He was dressed for school, his hair combed, and a joy the driver had never observed in him during the trips. He greeted her timidly and asked his mother if he could take the toy.

Raquel adjusted his shirt collar.

— You can, but don't lose it again.

The boy nodded and ran to get his backpack. The woman waited until he disappeared before continuing.

— Yesterday he slept eight hours. Eight. In the In-Between, sometimes he stayed awake for weeks and then slept so much that I began to think he would never wake up. Today he woke up remembering his classmates' names, what he ate for dinner, and a story the teacher told. Do you know what it's like to spend decades teaching a child to tie his shoes and discover, the next morning, that he has forgotten what shoelaces are for?

Marta watched her in silence. She had wanted to hate Raquel since she found Neusa in the kitchen, but the woman before her seemed as tired as any mother who had spent years caring for a sick child. Marta couldn't look for long at the joy the other tried to hide.

— I want my daughter back.

— I know.

— Then you're getting on that bus tonight.

Raquel pressed her arms against her body.

— I can't.

The anger came so quickly that Marta had to step back to keep from grabbing her by the shoulders.

— You can't or you won't?

The woman started to answer but stopped when Tomás appeared with a notebook in his hands. He opened it on the table to show a drawing he had made during the night. There was a blue house, a woman in a light dress, and a boy holding a red toy car. Behind them, Tomás had drawn a long figure, with open arms, that took up almost all the remaining space on the page. It had no head. The white dress went down to the bottom edge, where it continued through a line the child had made on the table itself.

— Who is that person? — asked Marta.

Tomás examined the drawing.

— The woman who stays in my room.

Raquel lost her color.

— What woman, dear?

— The one who taught me to find the house. She said that tomorrow I'll wake up bigger.

The boy turned the page. There was another figure, similar to the first, but now with an extraordinary number of teeth scattered across the dress. Tomás had colored them red and yellow, as if they were little flowers.

— She said I could grow fast, if I lent her my mouth.

Raquel closed the notebook.

The boy protested, indignant at the lack of recognition for his artistic talent, and ran off to get the toy car. When he disappeared up the stairs, the mother remained for some time looking at the cover.

— Yesterday he asked me why his left hand was moving on its own — she said. — I thought he was playing. Then, during the night, I heard someone talking in the room. It was his voice, but it came from inside the wall.

Marta examined the stairs.

There was a damp mark on the wallpaper in the hallway. At first it was a common leak, the kind that grows while the family argues about whose responsibility it is to call the mason. In the center, however, there were five small depressions, arranged in a shape that resembled the fingers of a hand.

One of them moved.

Marta didn't wait to find out what would happen next.

She left the house and crossed the street almost at a run. Behind her, Raquel called her name, but the driver continued to the corner, where she had to lean on a pole to catch her breath.

She found Seu Américo in the garage, sitting inside bus 86, even though the vehicle was locked and the keys remained with the shift supervisor. The old man occupied his usual seat, with hat and coat, watching through the window the mechanics working under the buses. Marta climbed through the front door, which opened before she touched it, and sat next to him without asking how he had gotten in. She had already learned not to ask about certain conveniences of the In-Between, especially when they benefited her.

— I want to find my daughter.

Américo examined her face without surprise. He had his cane resting against the seat.

— I figured someone close would end up leaving the place.

Marta took a deep breath. She was tired, hadn't slept in almost two days, and had reached the conclusion that the patience needed to talk to that man should be sold in pharmacies, preferably without a prescription.

— Where is Lia?

— If the change was as it seems, she must be in the In-Between. I don't know exactly which part. The road receives many people who suddenly lose their place, and not all of them manage to find their way back. Some wake up in a house similar to theirs, others on a street where no one recognizes their names. There are people who spend years looking for a door they refuse to admit has closed.

— And why did my mother appear?

The old man hesitated.

— When Raquel got off, the world began to find a story in which she and the boy had always lived in that house. That doesn't just require walls. It needs neighbors who remember them, people who know the child's name, a school where there's a chair for Tomás. All those things were already occupied by other stories. Some were pushed aside. Others ended up coming back.

Marta thought of Neusa's photographs, the trips she had never taken, and the cesarean scar, now attributed to a surgery she didn't remember.

— So my daughter was swapped for my mother?

— I don't know if there was such a simple swap. — Américo took off his hat. — The In-Between doesn't usually choose one thing and remove another politely. Sometimes an event depends on many others, and when someone gets a place that didn't belong to them, the consequences spread. Your marriage may never have happened, a neighbor may die before being born, a child may discover they never had siblings. Then people keep living, convinced that everything was always that way. Those who remember both stories tend to suffer a great deal. I don't know anyone who considered the experience an advantage.

Marta remained silent. The old man watched the empty seats, as if searching among them for a passenger who hadn't arrived yet.

— The bus crosses without requiring anyone to stay on one side or the other — he continued. — While we're on it, we can visit, transport things, find people. Getting off to live is different. Your world has a very unpleasant way of finding space for what it didn't expect to receive.

— And what's inside Tomás?

Américo turned his eyes to her.

Marta told him about the drawing, the hand on the wall, and the promise made to the boy. The old man listened to the end without interrupting. When she finished, he remained for a few moments examining his own fingers.

— There are things that live deeper in the In-Between. We don't usually find them on the streets where we live. Sometimes they appear in a house that's been empty too long, or on an abandoned road. They don't need the same things we do. Some seem interested in learning. Others approach when someone wants to recover a person or a life they've lost. It's hard to know what they intend, because we usually begin to understand something when they're already using our memories to talk to us.

— That explanation is horrifying, Américo.

— I know. I spent a long time trying to find another.

He told her that, years before, a lady had crossed over to visit her dead husband. She found the man in the kitchen, reading a newspaper he had left unfinished on the day of the funeral. She spent three nights with him, cooked his favorite meals, and slept by his side. On the fourth, she noticed that her husband was still reading the same page, even though she had changed the newspaper twice. When she asked why he didn't finish reading, he replied that he was waiting to find out what should happen next.

The woman returned to the road before dawn. They found her months later, sleeping on a bench in the square, her hair completely white. They never knew what happened to the man. At that time, Américo still believed that some answers could make people less unhappy.

— And today?

The old man put his hat back on.

— Today I believe that some questions are well enough formulated to make us unhappy without needing any answer at all.

Marta looked at the dashboard clock. The vehicle remained off, but the hands moved slowly in the opposite direction.

— If Raquel goes back, will Lia come back too?

— The story can recover the place it lost. But a person isn't a piece of furniture that reappears in the room as soon as someone returns the key. Your daughter will need to cross back. And Raquel will have to take the boy before that thing finds another way.

— Then I'll go get them.

Américo nodded. He didn't seem satisfied or especially upset.

— Talk to your mother first.

Marta turned.

— Why?

The old man watched her for some time. There were things he wanted to say, but he seemed to be looking for a way not to make them sound like a sentence.

— Because, when your daughter returns, you may no longer find Neusa at home.

Marta got off the bus without saying goodbye.

That afternoon, she looked for Raquel again. She found the woman sitting on the porch, with the sketchbook open on her lap. Tomás was sleeping in the room, and she kept the door ajar to watch for any movement. The house seemed to have aged since morning. There were new stains on the walls, a smell of dampness in the hallway, and small cracks appearing near the windows.

Raquel didn't ask why Marta had returned.

— He woke up speaking in my father's voice — she said, showing her the notebook. — My father died before Tomás was born. Today the boy asked me if I remembered when he used to take me to the river to fish. It was a memory only I knew. Then he asked if he could stay inside my mouth for a while because he was tired of using his own.

Marta examined the hallway. The damp stain had grown. It now covered part of the stairs, and the five fingers were more defined, as if someone were pressing the paper from the inside.

— We need to get the boy out of here.

Raquel closed the notebook.

— What happens if we go back?

— I don't know. Américo says we'll need to find a way to help him. But I can't keep leaving my daughter in that place while your boy learns to speak with the voices of the dead.

The woman began to cry. Marta sat beside her, uncomfortable with the urge to offer some kind of consolation. She found nothing to say and distrusted what came to mind. For a long time, they listened to the movement of the street, the noise of a motorcycle, and a neighbor's television.

— I thought I could do it — said Raquel. — When I saw the house, I thought I had finally found a place where he could live. There was a room, toys, a school. I had memories of birthdays that never happened, and they were all so beautiful that I began to want to believe in them. Yesterday I found a photograph of Tomás at three years old. He was sitting on the lap of a man I didn't know, on a beach we never went to. I spent an hour looking at that portrait, trying to figure out if I could remember the day. When I realized it, I was crying over a trip I never took.

Marta observed the street. A girl crossed the sidewalk carrying a loaf of bread almost the size of her own arm. She must have been about eight. With each bite, she turned the bread to keep the filling from falling on her feet.

— I found my mother last night — she said. — She died twenty-three years ago. She was making rice when I got home.

Raquel looked at her.

— I'm sorry.

— I don't know if you should be.

The woman followed her gaze to the street. For a while, she seemed to be searching for an answer that wouldn't add to the weight of the conversation.

— Did you want her to come back?

Marta thought of her mother peeling the orange, the smell of anise, and the gesture with which she had adjusted her hair. She wanted to answer yes. She wanted to answer no. Neither possibility seemed true enough.

— I wanted to be able to choose without my daughter having to pay for it.

Raquel lowered her eyes.

— Me too.

That was the most reconciliation they could manage.

Marta left the woman on the porch and returned home. She found Neusa preparing beans, with a pot of rice on the stove and an old radio playing a song the daughter remembered hearing during childhood. Her mother was upset because the neighbor in the upstairs apartment had started a renovation without warning, and Marta had to listen for almost ten minutes to a detailed account of the damages caused by people who confused the right to property with authorization to destroy other people's patience.

It was such a familiar complaint that Marta felt like crying again.

— Mom, do you remember when I got very sick? I was little. I think I was seven.

Neusa kept stirring the beans.

— You got sick many times. You were a child who was always running barefoot and had a special talent for putting dirty things in your mouth.

— There was a time you took me by bus to some place. I don't remember well.

The spoon stopped.

Neusa didn't take her eyes off the pot; she gripped the spoon handle until her fingers turned white.

— It was a long time ago.

— Do you remember?

— I remember you had a fever. A high fever. There was a night I thought I was going to lose you. — The old woman turned off the heat and rested the spoon on the sink. — I remember a road. There was a girl with us, and a man who smoked the whole time. Then... I don't know. There's a part I've never been able to remember properly.

Marta felt her throat tighten.

— What girl?

Neusa looked at her, startled by the clarity of that memory.

— I don't know. Sometimes I dream about her. I dream she's waiting at a bus stop, with a red backpack. When I get close, she asks if you're better now. I say yes, and the girl starts to cry. I always wake up before I can ask her name.

Marta remained still.

— Why did you never tell me this?

Her mother seemed offended.

— Because it was a dream, Marta. If I were to tell you everything I dream, you'd need to take a vacation to listen to me.

There was a pause. Neusa examined the kitchen, the cabinets, the shopping list, and the two chairs by the table.

— But since yesterday I've been dreaming awake.

Marta approached.

— What do you mean?

The old woman ran her hand over her dress. For a few seconds, she lost the thread of what she intended to say.

— Today I was washing a cup and I remembered you holding a baby. I remembered so clearly that I almost asked where the girl was. Then I looked at the living room and saw a photograph of you with a child on your lap. When I went to get it, the photograph had disappeared. — Neusa breathed with difficulty. — I don't know what's happening, my daughter. But I think you're not making up that girl you said was your daughter.

Marta began to cry.

Her mother held her face between her hands. Marta remembered that gesture from childhood, when she would come home with a pain and couldn't say where.

— Are you going after her?

The daughter nodded.

Neusa returned to the stove.

— Then eat first.

Marta watched her take two plates from the cabinet, serve rice and beans, add pieces of pumpkin, and place a small dish of collard greens on the table. Her mother commented that she had bought meat but gave up preparing it because it was too expensive, and asked if Marta intended to continue working that line after everything that had happened.

— I don't know.

— Well, you should look for something else. You're getting too old to drive at dawn.

— I'm fifty-five, Mom.

— Exactly. At your age, I was already tired of almost everyone.

Marta sat down.

They ate for a while without talking. Neusa complained about the amount of salt her daughter added to the beans, asked if she was taking her blood pressure medication, and told her that a neighbor had found a snake inside the washing machine. Marta listened to everything with an attention that would probably have made her mother suspicious under normal circumstances.

When they finished, Neusa peeled an orange. She removed the peel in a single strip, divided the fruit, and offered half to her daughter.

— Are you coming back? — she asked.

Marta looked at her.

— I'll try.

Her mother seemed to consider the answer. Then she nodded, as if it were good enough.

— If you find that girl from the road, tell her I'm sorry.

Marta stopped chewing.

Neusa kept looking at the orange.

— I don't know exactly why. But tell her anyway.

The daughter remained at the table until early evening. When she finally stood up, her mother walked her to the door, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and asked if she was taking a coat. Marta almost replied that she didn't need one, but went back to the bedroom to get it.

Before leaving, she hugged Neusa again.

The old woman complained that Marta was becoming too sentimental and told her to be careful with buses, especially on curves. The daughter promised, though she was beginning to suspect that her mother knew of dangers much greater than those represented by a poorly maintained road.

She didn't ask if they would meet again.

Neusa didn't either.

That night, Raquel arrived at the garage with Tomás in her arms and a poorly closed bag, from which the sleeve of a child's coat protruded. Inside were also a pair of small shoes and the sketchbook the boy had shown Marta that morning. Raquel walked with difficulty. Tomás wasn't heavy, but his body had acquired a strange rigidity, and sometimes he twisted suddenly, forcing his mother to hold him by the legs. He kept his eyes half-closed and his left hand hidden in his coat pocket. When Marta approached, he raised his face and smiled with a satisfaction the driver couldn't interpret.

— Did you find my room?

Raquel pressed him to her chest before Marta could answer. There were deep circles under her eyes, and the way she watched her son resembled less the vigilance of a worried mother than the effort of someone trying to recognize a face in a portrait that was being altered before her.

— We're going home, dear. Dona Marta is going to take us.

Tomás examined the garage, the hanging lamps, the parked vehicles, and the oil stains on the floor. He searched for something among the concrete structures and, when he looked back at Marta, he was no longer smiling.

— She said you also have someone waiting.

The driver felt her stomach contract. She thought of Neusa, the beans they had eaten together, and the small orange her mother had peeled before her farewell. She didn't answer. She helped Raquel up, settled the bag between the seats, and asked them to stay near the cabin, where she could watch them through the mirror.

Seu Américo was already occupying the second seat. He wore the same dark coat as every night, though the collar was wet and his hands trembled slightly when he removed his hat. Dona Zuleide remained near the window, with the cage covered by a velvet cloth that moved slowly, without any wind inside the vehicle. Nina boarded last. She carried the red backpack, a coat too big for her body, and a small white clip fastened at ear level. She greeted Marta with a timid movement, but before sitting down, she asked if the driver really intended to cross the overpass after the line's closure.

— I'm already here, aren't I? — Marta indicated the open door, the lit dashboard, and the keys she had taken without authorization. — I just hope no one decides to tell the supervisor before I get back. That man takes everything personally.

Nina smiled, without seeming entirely convinced. She sat by the window and opened her math notebook, though she didn't write anything. For a few minutes, she pretended to study a problem she couldn't solve, running the pencil over the same line until it slightly tore the paper.

The old man was standing by the cabin.

— You know it can be different this time.

— Different how?

Américo examined Tomás. The boy had rested his head on his mother's shoulder, but his lips continued to form inaudible words.

— On the first trip, Raquel found a path that wasn't available to her. Now we're trying to go back along that same path, only there's something interested in crossing with us. The road may start showing places we recognize. Don't trust all of them.

— I don't even trust the ones I recognize — replied Marta, engaging first gear. — And at this point, I consider that a quality.

The bus left the garage at 11:47 p.m. Santa Amélia was almost deserted, except for the lights of the gas stations, the last customers of the bars, and the people who continued working because someone, somewhere, had decided that the night should be as productive as the day. Rain streamed down the windshield. Marta recognized the route, the curves, the small defects in the asphalt, and the spots where passengers usually waited; everything retained such persistent familiarity that for a few minutes she managed to convince herself she was merely transporting a group of acquaintances to a distant neighborhood.

The illusion ended when they passed the street of the Aroeiras.

The blue house was lit. There were flowers on the porch, a bicycle leaning against the wall, and a man gathering clothes from the clothesline. Marta slowed down involuntarily. She had known that empty lot for almost twenty years, had seen a residence appear there the night before, and now found a man behaving as if he had spent a lifetime complaining about the difficulty of drying clothes in October. Raquel pressed Tomás against her body and avoided looking.

The boy, however, raised his head.

— Mom, she's at the window.

On the upper floor, a very tall woman remained behind the curtain. It wasn't possible to distinguish her face. The folds of the fabric followed her body up to a height where the wall should have met the ceiling, but the figure kept rising, as if someone had placed an entire person inside a house that was inadequately small. The woman raised her hand. Tomás responded to the greeting before Raquel could stop him.

— Don't look, dear.

— She's sad — murmured the boy. — I promised she could live with us.

The bus passed the house. Marta tried to find the window in the rearview mirror, but saw only a smooth wall, without curtain or lighting. For an instant, she believed she had confused the facades. Then she noticed that the man at the clothesline had stopped working and remained staring at the window, with one of the wet clothes suspended between his hands.

Seu Américo watched the scene without saying anything. When they reached the overpass, he approached Raquel and sat beside her.

— Tomás, do you remember when you found the house?

The boy seemed sleepy. He took a while to understand the question, but eventually nodded.

— She showed me.

— Were you already on the other side when your mother came to get you?

— I don't know.

Américo waited. There was an ancient patience in his way of talking. Marta had seen him argue with drunken passengers, frightened children, and people convinced they had lost their own age. He rarely raised his voice.

— Think about what happened before you found the house, Tomás. Were you at school? Were you playing in the street?

The boy brought his right hand to his left pocket. He held the fingers of his left hand with his right and strained to keep them together.

— I was sleeping. I dreamed of a street where there was a blue house. The woman said it was mine, but she needed Mommy to open the door. When I woke up, I was already waiting on the sidewalk.

Raquel brought her hand to her mouth.

Marta met Américo's eyes in the mirror. The old man didn't show surprise, though his expression had become considerably more serious.

The house had appeared before Raquel crossed over.

Marta recalled the child standing in the rain, smiling in front of a residence that had never existed. He hadn't been lost. He was waiting precisely where his mother should find him, as if someone had prepared a scene and was waiting only for the entrance of the main character.

Tomás kept looking at his own pocket.

— The woman said a mother always knows where to look for her child. I just had to stay very quiet.

Dona Zuleide's cage produced three sharp thuds. The old woman rested her hand on the fabric, which rose and sank between the bars.

Marta didn't ask what was in there. The cage went quiet under the old woman's hand.

The overpass appeared ahead, with its yellow columns and the lamps that never all worked at the same time. Marta slowed down when she felt the bus shudder over a concrete joint. The sound of the tires changed, the rain disappeared from the windshield, and a pale brightness began to fill the road.

On the other side, there were no trees.

The houses remained close to one another, compressed between walls Marta didn't recognize. Some facades opened windows onto interiors larger than the houses themselves. In a small residence, one could see a staircase that descended until it disappeared into a sort of train station; in another, a woman was hanging clothes in front of a snowy field, taking from the line sheets that never finished leaving her hands. There were people sitting at their doors, children playing, and a man repairing a bicycle while a second street crossed through his living room without interrupting the repair.

Marta drove slowly. She didn't recognize the way, but found familiar marks of an inhabited city: the smell of bread coming from an open window, domestic arguments passing through thin walls, a dog barking at something humans had learned to leave alone. The normality of that place was more unsettling than its deformations. It seemed to have matured around them.

Seu Américo indicated a cross street that led to the old bakery. The establishment remained open. The baker, a stout man named Orlando, was arguing with a lady who wanted to exchange three loaves for a small box of matches. When he saw the bus, he interrupted the conversation and approached the driver's window.

— I thought they had closed the line.

— They did — replied Marta. — We're still finding out if the notice reached all interested parties.

Orlando didn't find it funny. He looked at Raquel, recognized the sleeping boy, and seemed to age a few years in the space of a breath.

— She came back.

Américo nodded.

The baker stepped back. Behind him, a young woman appeared at the door with a tray of bread fresh from the oven. Upon recognizing Raquel, she covered her mouth with her hand.

— My sister went three days without remembering who she was after that house appeared — said Orlando. — Today she called me by my name for the first time. If you pass through here bringing another one of those things, I want to know before I decide whether to open the door.

Raquel didn't answer. Marta observed the man and felt an irritation she couldn't distribute fairly. Orlando had reasons to be furious. Raquel also had her reasons.

Américo explained that they were taking Tomás to Eulália, at the house of bells, and that the common passage needed to be reestablished before dawn. Orlando kept looking at the boy, then at Dona Zuleide's cage. He asked what had come in with him. The old woman replied that she didn't know yet, but that she preferred to find out far from establishments where food was prepared. The baker agreed with admirable speed and went back inside.

Before leaving, Marta saw Orlando's sister place a small package on the first step of the bus. They were warm breads, wrapped in a cloth.

— For whoever is hungry — said the young woman, without raising her eyes.

The vehicle continued. Marta left the package on the dashboard and followed the street, where some houses seemed to move away as the bus approached. The smell of fresh bread spread through the cabin, and Nina asked permission to take a piece. She ate in silence, offering half to Tomás, who refused without opening his eyes. Shortly after, the boy began to sing.

It was a familiar tune. Marta remembered having heard it during childhood, though she couldn't say who had taught her the melody. Tomás sang the first verses normally, then added names of streets, people, and events that didn't belong to the song. Raquel tried to make him stop, but the sound continued coming from his chest even after his lips stopped moving.

Dona Zuleide uncovered the cage.

There was no bird at all between the bars. The interior space seemed occupied by a dark depth, incompatible with the size of the object. For an instant, Marta glimpsed a narrow passage, lit at the back by something that could be a window. Then the cloth was replaced, and the impression disappeared.

Tomás opened his eyes.

There were two pupils in each one.

— She knows we're leaving — he said, in a voice so hoarse that Marta almost didn't recognize him.

Raquel hugged him. The boy began to cry, but his left hand remained motionless on his lap, fingers open in an uncomfortable position.

— Who knows, dear?

Tomás tried to answer. His lips moved, but no word came out. The left hand, however, began to close slowly, as if someone were learning to use it from the inside. First the index finger, then the middle, the ring, and finally the thumb. The movement ended with a small tap on his knee.

The child looked at his own hand and let out a scream.

Dona Zuleide leaned over him. She examined his eyes, touched his forehead, and asked him to show his tongue. Tomás obeyed, trembling. The old woman seemed to recognize something, though she didn't explain what.

— He can still hear you — she told Raquel. — Try not to forget that.

The bus continued, and for a while the boy remained clinging to his mother's body, trying to hide his hand inside his coat. Marta noticed that Nina was watching him through the mirror. There was in the girl's expression a combination of pity and curiosity that the driver knew from other circumstances, when children encountered someone whose difference offered them, for the first time, an unpleasant image of their own possibilities.

The house of bells appeared after a curve Marta didn't remember having crossed.

It was lit, but the windows remained covered by dark cloths. In the garden, some people were carrying furniture and boxes out of an attached construction. There was a disassembled bed against the wall, clothes piled on a chair, and a man arguing with another about the fate of a collection of photographs. The movement resembled a move carried out in haste, with the difference that no one seemed to know exactly where to take the objects.

Eulália was waiting on the porch.

She wore a dark apron, her hair was pinned up haphazardly, and she held a bunch of keys whose usefulness Marta began to question as soon as she noticed that half the doors of the house were open to corridors that didn't stay in the same place. The old woman examined the bus and recognized Raquel before the woman got off.

— Tomás needs to come in — announced Américo.

— He can come in — replied Eulália, looking at the child. — The rest of what came with him will have to wait outside.

Raquel pressed her son to her chest. Marta noticed that the old woman wasn't trying to frighten her. Her attention remained focused on the boy's left hand, which now moved slowly under the fabric of his coat.

— What happened to the house? — asked Américo.

Eulália looked at the furniture scattered across the garden.

— We lost the back corridor. Yesterday it led to the bedrooms. Today it opened onto a street where they're burying people who haven't died yet. One of the residents recognized her own husband at the burial and went to ask if he intended to come home late for dinner. Since then, we haven't found the kitchen door again.

The information was presented with the weariness of someone who had spent the entire morning solving problems no sensible person should face before coffee. Marta examined the covered windows, the stacked chairs, and the faces of the residents. The house of bells seemed less a supernatural refuge than a collective residence trying to survive a renovation begun by the wrong owner.

— Is my daughter here? — she asked.

Eulália looked at her.

— Lia Amaral?

Marta nodded.

— She is. Or was a little while ago. She went to look for Bento in the corridor that disappeared. He went after a lady who said she knew his mother, and Lia decided it would be an excellent opportunity to demonstrate the little consideration she has for her own safety.

The driver felt the ground lose some of its firmness.

— Where is that corridor?

Eulália examined her, then turned to Américo.

— Is she as stubborn as the daughter?

— I don't know the daughter — replied the old man. — But I can assure you we're facing a promising comparison.

The old woman let out a grumble, handed the keys to a man passing by, and asked that no one leave the boy alone. Then she led Marta and Américo into the house, warning that they shouldn't answer if they heard their names coming from the empty rooms. It was an old precaution, she explained, and it usually worked when people had the necessary manners to distrust invitations made by strangers.

The main corridor was covered with old wallpaper, patterned with small blue flowers. There were photographs, children's drawings, and height marks made in pencil next to the doors. Marta recognized a small coat hanging on a hook, a pair of shoes abandoned on the floor, and a pot someone had left on a chair. The house had the smell of soup, drying clothes, and old wood, but there was also an odor of damp flowers that increased as they approached the back.

Eulália stopped in front of a narrow door.

— Bento went in here. Lia went after him. The problem is that, after both passed, the door began to open onto places that were never inside this house. I found a train station, the kitchen of a lady who died fifty years ago, and a room where there were three versions of the same man arguing about who should pay the rent. None showed any interest in leaving. I closed it before they started arguing with me.

Marta examined the doorknob.

— And how am I going to find my daughter?

The old woman took from her pocket a small object wrapped in cloth. It was a child's shoe, worn at the toe, with the lace tied in a clumsy knot.

— Bento usually hides shoes when he's afraid someone will leave. Lia discovered this during the first weeks and began returning the pairs before the residents had to go out barefoot. If you find the child, show him this. He'll recognize it.

Marta took the shoe.

She had imagined the reunion with Lia throughout the trip. She had thought of hugging her, asking if she was hurt, and taking her home immediately. She didn't expect to have to look for her inside a construction whose architecture demonstrated such a deep antipathy for the permanence of rooms.

Eulália opened the door.

On the other side was a small kitchen, lit by a yellow lamp. On the table, someone had left two cups of coffee and a plate with leftover cake. Marta recognized the environment before understanding why. It was the kitchen of her childhood, with the same green cabinet, the same window over the sink, and the curtain Neusa had sewn one Sunday afternoon.

Her mother was sitting at the table.

She raised her eyes and smiled.

— Marta, my daughter, you're early.

The driver stood still. Eulália grabbed her arm before she could enter.

— It's not that way.

Neusa kept smiling. There was a small coffee stain on her dress, and her right hand rested on an orange she hadn't begun to peel. Marta recognized the knife, the dish towel, and even the small crack in the tile behind the stove. Everything had a precision so cruel that she felt like sitting down, accepting the coffee, and asking why her mother was in that place.

The figure tilted her head.

— What are you waiting for? The cake is going to dry out.

Eulália closed the door.

Marta let out her breath with difficulty. She remained for a few seconds leaning against the wall, listening to the small noise of the wood settling in the doorframe. On the other side, Neusa's voice continued talking, now with someone the driver didn't recognize.

— She doesn't like dry cake — commented the woman. — She was always full of demands.

Eulália observed Marta without offering consolation. Then she pointed to the pencil mark next to the door.

— Bento passed through here a little while ago. He's looking for something he lost. If the voice has learned who your mother is, it will start looking for you too.

The driver looked again at the child's shoe. She didn't know if the object would be enough to find Lia, but it was the first concrete thing she had since entering that house.

She opened the next door.

This time, she found a dark corridor, with walls covered by photographs she didn't recognize. In some, there were people smiling in front of demolished houses; in others, children appeared next to adults whose faces had been carefully removed from the paper. Marta moved forward, looking for shoe marks on the floor. Américo accompanied her, though his breathing had begun to grow heavy.

At the back, they heard an argument.

— Bento, if you hide another pair of shoes inside that closet, I'm going to start wearing yours.

It was Lia.

Marta immediately recognized her daughter's impatience, the way she stretched certain words when she wanted to make a child understand that her patience was near its end. She moved forward through the corridor, almost tripping over a chair that wasn't there an instant before, and found a door ajar.

Lia was kneeling in front of a boy with light hair.

Bento was about nine years old, had a distrustful expression, and held a pair of women's shoes on his knees. He held a small notebook, full of names written in different handwriting. When he saw Marta, he moved back behind the daughter, examining the visitor with the attention of someone who had already learned that unknown adults frequently appeared to decide where children should live.

Lia raised her eyes.

For a few seconds, she remained still. Then she dropped the notebook and crossed the room, clinging to her mother so tightly that both almost lost their balance. Marta recognized the smell of her hair, the warmth of her hands, and the way she hid her face against her neck when she cried. Only two days had passed without her daughter, but Lia seemed to have lived through something much longer. Her face was thin, her hair pinned up haphazardly, and there were small recent scars on her fingers.

— Mom, I thought you weren't coming.

Marta couldn't answer immediately. She hugged her, kissed her hair, and remained for some time listening to her breathing. When she finally managed to speak, she asked if she was hurt, if she had eaten, and why she had entered that corridor.

Lia let out a laugh between tears.

— You've been here for two minutes and you're already complaining.

The remark was so familiar that Marta felt an absurd urge to scold her for disrespect. Instead, she hugged her again.

Bento approached slowly. He examined Marta from head to toe and seemed to reach an unpleasant conclusion.

— Is that your mother?

Lia nodded.

— Yes.

The boy observed the driver for a few seconds.

— She looks angry.

— You should have met my grandmother — replied Lia, wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

Marta took from her pocket the shoe Eulália had given her. Bento took it without thanking her, hid it behind his body, and looked at Lia, to see if she was going to tell.

Marta looked at the fallen notebook. There were names written on different pages, some crossed out, others repeated with small alterations. Bento explained that he kept there what he could remember about the people who had cared for him. He wasn't sure how many there were, and sometimes the names changed during the night. Lia had begun helping him preserve the memories. When a person disappeared from the notebook, they tried to reconstruct them from something they both remembered: the smell of a soap, a song, the way of tying shoes.

— Today I woke up remembering that my mother sang while she washed clothes — said Bento, looking at Marta. — But I can't remember the song. Lia said it's okay.

— I said we can look — corrected the young woman. — I didn't promise we'd find it.

Bento nodded, folded the cover of the notebook, and pressed it to his chest.

Eulália appeared at the door. She carried a small cloth bag and an expression of growing irritation.

— Did you decide to turn my corridor into a family reunion? We have an entire house trying to come in through that wall, and I'd like to keep at least half the rooms until dinner.

Lia picked up Bento's notebook. The boy held her hand.

— Are you leaving?

The young woman nodded.

— I am. My mother came to get me.

— And me?

The question came out so low that Marta almost didn't hear it. Lia knelt in front of him and tried to answer, but Eulália approached first.

— You stay with me, Bento. We had already agreed.

The boy lowered his eyes.

— But you said you might have to close the back rooms.

Eulália examined the wall. There were small cracks in the wallpaper, and a noise similar to someone breathing through a cloth began to emerge from under the door.

— I will close them. Which doesn't mean we're going to abandon anyone in there. We have the kitchen, the living room, the front bedroom, and a porch that remains perfectly willing to stay where it is. Most families have lived in worse conditions. Some still consider that a reason for pride.

Bento didn't smile. He continued holding Lia's hand, looking at the bag she carried.

— And my things?

Eulália remained silent for a few seconds. Then she crouched down, bringing herself to the boy's height.

— The corridor is getting dangerous. We can't keep everything. You choose what you need to take now. The rest may not be able to come back.

The child examined the room. There was a wooden box under the bed, some toys on a shelf, and a pair of old shoes by the door. Inside the box he kept small objects he had found since his arrival: a button, two coins, a photograph without faces, a piece of blue fabric, and a letter no one had been able to read.

Bento approached the box. He opened it, took out some objects, and tried to put them inside Lia's backpack. They didn't fit. For a few moments, he seemed willing to insist, but the corridor began to creak, and one of the walls slowly moved away, revealing behind the wallpaper a dark expanse where Marta couldn't distinguish the floor.

Lia approached.

— We can take the notebook.

Bento looked at the objects. There were tears in his eyes, but he didn't cry.

— And if I forget the rest?

The young woman knelt beside him.

— I'll remember some things too. And you can tell me again when I come back.

The boy remained looking at the box. Then he chose the notebook, a white button, and the piece of blue fabric. He put them in the backpack and left the other objects where they were. When he stood up, he ran his hand over the lid, as if apologizing to something he couldn't name.

Eulália held his shoulder.

— Come on, dear. Before this room decides to live somewhere else.

They left through the corridor as the walls began to close in. Marta noticed that the door they had entered through now opened onto a different room, where unknown people were talking in front of a long table. Eulália didn't show surprise. She followed a side passage, opened a small wooden door, and led everyone to the porch. When the last one crossed, she closed it and removed a piece of iron from the hinge.

The corridor disappeared.

There was no explosion, collapse, or any spectacle worth remembering. The wall remained where it was, smooth, painted light yellow. Only a small mark on the baseboard indicated that a door had existed there.

Bento approached. He touched the wall with his fingertips and spent some time looking for the doorknob.

Eulália placed her hand on his head.

— Now we need to find another place to keep your things.

The boy nodded. Lia hugged him, promising she would try to come back, though she didn't know when. Bento asked if she would remember his name. The young woman answered yes, with a firmness Marta recognized immediately, for it was the same voice her daughter used when she needed to convince someone that she still had control over a situation.

Marta didn't interrupt.

The bells began to ring before they could reach the bus.

The first chime made the porch windows vibrate. On the second, the wallpaper began to peel, revealing underneath a dark, damp surface, crossed by small marks that seemed to have been made with fingernails. On the third, Tomás screamed.

Raquel was sitting by the stairs, holding her son against her body. The boy had opened his eyes and was trying to push away his own left hand, which now clung to his mother's neck with a force disproportionate to the size of his fingers. Marta ran to them, but Dona Zuleide was already beside the child, holding the wrist that moved on its own.

Tomás was crying. He tried to say something, but the words came out mixed with a deeper voice, which seemed to pronounce each syllable with experimental slowness.

— She wants... she wants us to...

The left hand squeezed Raquel's neck again.

Eulália grabbed the boy's arm. The skin was cold, though his face remained warm and covered in tears. The old woman examined him for a few seconds, then asked Marta to bring a chair and Raquel to sit down.

— Tomás, can you hear me?

The boy nodded.

— The woman said I could grow — he murmured. — She said I just had to let her stay with me a little while. Now she doesn't want to leave.

Raquel began to cry.

— My love, you didn't do anything wrong.

Tomás looked at his mother, frightened.

— I let her. She said she would be alone if I sent her away.

Eulália slowly released the child's wrist. The left hand remained raised, fingers curved in a position that resembled a small claw.

— Listen, Tomás. There are things here that know how to imitate people very well. They learn to use voices, memories, even gestures. But they need someone to keep making room for them. That's how this woman found the house. And that's how she found you.

The boy watched her in silence. His skin had paled so much that a fine network of veins had become visible near his ear.

— If I send her away, will I be small again?

Eulália looked at Raquel. The mother pressed her son to her chest but couldn't answer. For forty-two years, she had wanted to see him grow. She had spent sleepless nights imagining a life that moved forward, a different school, clothes that stopped fitting, and a face that changed with birthdays. Now the possibility was before her, though it had acquired a form that no maternal love could make acceptable.

Tomás began to cry louder.

— I don't want to be small.

Raquel ran her hand through her son's hair. She was trembling, but kept her voice low.

— I know, my love. I also wanted you to grow.

— She said she would teach me.

— I know.

— And if it never happens again?

Raquel closed her eyes. For a few seconds, Marta believed she wouldn't be able to answer.

The mother kissed the boy's forehead.

— Then we'll keep looking. I don't know how long it will take, Tomás. I don't even know if we'll succeed. But I don't want you to have to hand over your mouth, your hands, or your memories to someone who promises to give back something that should already be yours.

The boy remained looking at her. His left hand twisted, and a very low voice emerged between his teeth.

— She's going to abandon me.

Raquel held her son's face between her hands.

— I'm here.

— She's going to be alone.

— I know that's what she said. — The woman breathed with difficulty. — But you don't need to let anyone live inside you to keep them from being alone.

Tomás began to sob. The left hand gripped the arm of the chair, leaving small marks on the wood. For a few seconds, he seemed to struggle against his own body. Marta saw the fingers move in a sequence that didn't correspond to any human gesture, opening and closing while the boy tried to keep them still.

Dona Zuleide placed the cage on the floor, near the chair. The cloth moved slowly, and from inside came a sound Marta recognized without ever having heard it: the noise of a person calling for someone in a house where no one was left.

Tomás looked at the object.