On the night of the accident, Gustavo called Marcos twice before the police did. In the first call, he only asked if Ana Clara had arrived yet. In the second, he sounded agitated, but not surprised.
Marcos didn’t think about that then. Grief reduces the world to a single phrase: she’s gone. Everything else is left out, waiting its turn.
Ana Clara’s body was handled according to standard procedures. There were documents, signatures, a cremation authorization, and a scheduled time for the following day. Every step seemed designed to move forward even though her husband couldn’t breathe.
At the Vila Alpina Crematorium, in the eastern part of São Paulo, the air had an eerie weight. The flowers smelled overly sweet. The white lights made everything seem official, as if the tragedy required administrative illumination.
Marcos stood beside the coffin, his hands digging into the dark wood. Ana Clara lay inside, pale and motionless, prepared by hands that had never loved her. Her seven-month pregnant belly still rose beneath the cloth.
Ana Clara’s mother wept, clutching a rosary in her fingers. Gustavo stood against the wall, arms crossed, eyes red. He looked like a sad man, as long as no one stared at him for too long.
