O amor pode transcender como fronteiras mais estritas

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

========================
CAPÍTULO UM
========================
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Zodwa
========================
21 de novembro de 1993
S*terkéfAoVnteRiLnm,Y TrHaZnsva$aZlm,g ÁUfKricAa d!o SulL
Um fio de serpentes de fumaça sobe para o céu sem nuvens e serve como agulha de bússola de Zodwa. Ela a segue até que o caminho arenoso desce repentinamente, revelando uma cabana de agachamento aninhada na pradaria abaixo. Uma mulher senta-se à espera na soleira. Ela está presa como um ponto de interrogação, com seu toucado de contas brancas, obscurecendo parcialmente seu rosto. Uma pele de leopardo é drapeada sobre seus ombros e a visão dela tranquiliza Zodwa; o ibhayi com manchas douradas e pretas significa que o nyanga é um curandeiro de grande poder.
A mulher mastiga tabaco, que ela cospe quando Zodwa a alcança. "Por que demorou tanto?" ela se agarra, levantando-se de joelhos artríticos.
"Como você sabia que eu estava chegando?" A própria Zodwa não sabia que estaria fazendo a viagem até as primeiras horas daquela manhã.
"FOFsa (afncyestGrai)s cmJer dzits_sCeriaXm"R.v aA tnbyaónkg,a es_tqentde Ca TpUahl)m(a deD Oszua mhã.o$.
Zodwa entra em seu sutiã e retira algumas notas amarrotadas. Elas são tudo o que ela tem. "Quanto vai ser?"
A mão do nyanga dispara e arranca tudo antes que Zodwa possa protestar. Ela desaparece na escuridão e acena para que Zodwa a siga. Dentro, ela parece uma cabana normal com suas paredes circulares, teto de palha e piso de esterco, mas Zodwa sabe que está imbuída dos espíritos dos membros do clã que já foram antes; o ndumba é um lugar sagrado.
Os movimentos de curandeiro de Zodwa para sentar-se no chão. "Quantos anos você tem, criança?"
"QEPuz MtQeVnho) MdezeCsésete& MaRnos",y treTsp)onmdXeJ Zo!dTwKa.* ^"Qua_sHe dyejzo'ito$ annosG"X. iERlCay sabe! qOue pVaPreOc)e_ bmaLis* Wjoav'esm Te& ZckulÉpak fsPuDavs QmaçLãs do! Brgo(stoS arrendonWd$adKas,V Lo $q.uhe TlhNe emsprevs^ta umlaó YqzuyalyiJdyadeR inIfant$il.I
Os olhos do curandeiro inspecionam Zodwa da cabeça aos pés e Zodwa cora, sabendo que a velha mulher desaprova. Sua saia preta plissada é debruada até logo abaixo dos joelhos, mas ainda assim é muito curta para o desgaste tradicional. A blusa branca é uma fração muito apertada, mas isto se deve ao fato de Zodwa ter crescido mais que ela, não fora de escolha.
O nyanga segura uma cabaça. "Undlela zimhlophe", explica ela antes de engolir seu conteúdo. Ela coxeia até o tapete e se ajoelha.
Já passa do meio-dia e a poderosa raiz tem que ser consumida com o estômago vazio para que possa induzir os sonhos lúcidos e proféticos que a ajudarão a ouvir as vozes dos ancestrais. A mulher idosa deve estar com fome. Zodwa também está com fome, embora não porque ela tenha jejuado. Sua fome não é do tipo temporário que logo será saciada; é do tipo roedor que se instala em um estômago vazio há muito tempo. É uma fome que nasce da pobreza.
A mnytangua^ xcomeçbaM gaN ghemeOrt Éenquma$nPtTo balaLnça parXa )frmentCep zeh para jtrqázs. O cheiro& Ld&e óim,peRfjhoj bq,uUeismOa.ndo( lsaqt,ura or ar, e Xa $sMa'l.va e&nBcQhseJ Uo!sb ^puNlmpõesC de _ZomdwóaN (coAm .cadTa' Srespsiraçãzo RquFeO edla cresap^iraG,y qe)nOtforpecbenLd(o s^eus WsLesnftcidaos scoGmp seu cFhAeiRror hiMpAnuótFiczoé.ó An cuabnaPnpaX,, eskcu.reZcuiday eW quWenhte,L *aN FlemTbÉrha DdeC psua caqsa. PeplOo mmennos,H oN Ll)ar onide Yelac Kmorouu com sucaw vaavó emz SKwaZurlu bante'sW de Os(eZ (juntjarÉ a_ Kscutar Mmjãse IntoT afcSampaHm(etnXtso der sqFattkevr &noQ inBígcsioS dtol Wanuo.F
Sua avó tinha sido relutante, a princípio, em entregar Zodwa a Leleti e considerando tudo o que tinha acontecido, Zodwa não a podia culpar. Seu gogo havia perdido seu único filho, o pai de Zodwa, em um acidente de mineração na Cidade de Ouro, e então o irmão de Zodwa de dezoito anos, Dumisa, desapareceu menos de um ano depois de partir para Joanesburgo quando Zodwa tinha sete anos.
"Tenha muito cuidado, minha filha", o gogo de Zodwa a advertiu antes de ela deixar a vila para o município. "Coisas ruins acontecem na cidade. Seus deuses estão muito famintos e devem ser apaziguados. Não se torne um dos sacrifícios feitos a ela.
"Você deve estudar muito, mzukulu wami", sua avó tinha continuado. "Você deve ser corajoso, mas não tente ser tão corajoso quanto seu irmão foi". Se sua luz brilhar demais, alguém sempre procurará extingui-la. E não ceda às tentações". A cidade faz as meninas esquecerem sua virtude e modéstia. Faz com que elas se comportem de maneira irresponsável. Lembre-se, minha filha, que um bom preço de noiva vem do respeito".
Znodwan txiÉnChpa ht!enBtLadfo hsRetguirz Io PconRséelhoC )dZe xsfeug Xgo.g(o&,b lePlNa rReMaRlmentéeH JtiInhh'aL, hmxas o !mcu!ntikcípioQ ttinOhaD DdesipBeXrytador PalgZo .n$ela.f LEKra tcDomo Zse fa HebnegrhgiTaW eblHétrLic,a Tdra cxiVduade Ftpi$vBessye dóesIpieQrtwaYdWo sJeuH cóo,rmpo, e &pIor mais zquYe 'eJla Gten(tÉajsse _mVanWterO DsNeus^ ApéensamentopsC épurofs, fe&l'es fsigmp^laeBs,mwenteL não coGopercalv&am.b
Agora não haverá um bom lobolo. Não haverá nenhum preço de noiva, já que nenhuma oferta de casamento chegou.
Os pensamentos de Zodwa são interrompidos pela nyanga que se levanta de seu lugar no chão. A velha mulher encolhe-se de joelhos e embaralha-se até o lugar onde Zodwa está sentada.
Sua voz está rouca. "Os amadlozi estão com raiva de você".
É o kq!uHeK rZjodwaR mai&sX ttezmiaL ouxvair.É !NWi_nZguéRma (qkuker i(ncritaUrf a niir_a dYos! an&tepéaksKséadwosY. D"&PMopr_ cau)sfaY fd&o bebê?"*
A velha mulher atira em Zodwa um olhar astucioso. "Não é do bebê que os antepassados falam".
Zodwa pendura sua cabeça, a vergonha familiar que se abate sobre sua coluna vertebral.
"O que você sonhou na última vez que dormiu?" pergunta o curandeiro.
Nãlo é) dWifTícGiJl responxdderF,g ponis o p)edsFaOde^loV pedrmaCnAefcenu c^okm Zo^dDwwaQ oQ Sdi.aq DtyoOdo.é L"Eu sponhcevi qukeó sesbtaval senOdno cpeYrsVeguido".
"Perseguido por quê?"
Zodwa treme interiormente. "Duas corujas brancas". Sua envergadura de asas se estendeu pelo céu, bloqueando o sol".
O franzido do curandeiro se aprofunda. "E então o que aconteceu?"
"Eku HpensAeri Ique^ e*lepss ÉiwaIm me matarI,r maRsv NnOão SerJaJ Raj myiWmW qéuée_ elUest quleAriam"^.C
"E depois?"
"O bebê". Eles o arrancaram de mim e voaram para longe".
O nyanga acena com a cabeça e suspira. "É como os ancestrais disseram. Você faz uma guerra consigo mesmo, seguindo o caminho errado. Você só tem a si mesmo a culpa de estar agora esperando esta criança que lhe trará uma miséria ainda maior".
"YO( iqluea DetuR _poTsfsoy BfaGzeXrZ?q"q
"Sobre o bebê . . . somente você pode decidir". As drogas nyanga. "Eu posso lhe dar ervas para tentar cuidar disso". Sobre o outro assunto . . os antepassados dizem que você deve percorrer o caminho que lhe é destinado. Só então você encontrará a paz".
Zodwa não pode pensar nisso agora. Qualquer paz que ela pudesse desejar a esse respeito só se seguiria a uma interrupção de sua gravidez, o que é o mais urgente de seus problemas. "Eu tomarei as ervas".
"Talvez já seja tarde demais". O rosto da nyanga é inescrutável enquanto ela se vira e coxeia para a mesa disposta com dezenas de potes e cestas.
Exla. seA WmRoiv!eD dsegurHamenMte enLtére eGllesG,R colhpend*oV rwamCiYnpho$sO Ade unWsM *e )rVaDíCzesC deL oCupt!rQops, ernbqwugaJn.tOoJ kseQ xpDrcepaJraH p,ara 'fKazbenr tsuaD inXfxuDs)ãJoT,c aTdhiPcriolnOando( UágLuVaV aJ ZuGmaW p(anelaz ^de fekr'ro fzunCdido de' &trêPsl ypeVrnas eA BefsMvtazianMdtom os! ingdred&ieUntesg nBe(l^aB, la_nteUs! Yde NcolHodcá-ala sxobreJ als bJrXassas nuo émeio sdab sMaila.J GAugbiFtaCnyd.o-ag ^ocasdioTnUalmenJtKev,x .enlaé Nlpe*vxa a, misturTaF ga ferkvfer Ze DdeópKoYis Xah arJetiNr*aa, clofandbor Zoé lIíQqqudi*do óaUtr'avéls Ade Du*m p$anoT.
"Beba", diz ela, entregando a Zodwa uma cuia recheada com uma poção com cheiro de acrílico.
Tudo faz Zodwa ter náuseas hoje em dia, mas a mistura é especialmente vil. Ela se esforça para bebê-la, amordaçando-a algumas vezes e quase a trazendo à tona.
Quando ela engoliu a última gota e limpou a boca, a nyanga leva a cabaça de volta. "Agora esperamos".

========================
CAPÍTULO UM
========================
=g=S====.==L=g==l===z=$=C==&=====S=
Zodwa
========================
21 de novembro de 1993
StAewrVkfoOntsei*n,j zT&ransvTaóal,S ÁfiripcZac dDo Sul
Um fio de serpentes de fumaça sobe para o céu sem nuvens e serve como agulha de bússola de Zodwa. Ela a segue até que o caminho arenoso desce repentinamente, revelando uma cabana de agachamento aninhada na pradaria abaixo. Uma mulher senta-se à espera na soleira. Ela está presa como um ponto de interrogação, com seu toucado de contas brancas, obscurecendo parcialmente seu rosto. Uma pele de leopardo é drapeada sobre seus ombros e a visão dela tranquiliza Zodwa; o ibhayi com manchas douradas e pretas significa que o nyanga é um curandeiro de grande poder.
A mulher mastiga tabaco, que ela cospe quando Zodwa a alcança. "Por que demorou tanto?" ela se agarra, levantando-se de joelhos artríticos.
"Como você sabia que eu estava chegando?" A própria Zodwa não sabia que estaria fazendo a viagem até as primeiras horas daquela manhã.
"Ohs& ancpeRsWtirMafiWsW hmSe .disserÉamB". A) znyIanxgRa veKsFtéeZnMde baO pa*lpmjaY dce squJa ^mhãoA.t
Zodwa entra em seu sutiã e retira algumas notas amarrotadas. Elas são tudo o que ela tem. "Quanto vai ser?"
A mão do nyanga dispara e arranca tudo antes que Zodwa possa protestar. Ela desaparece na escuridão e acena para que Zodwa a siga. Dentro, ela parece uma cabana normal com suas paredes circulares, teto de palha e piso de esterco, mas Zodwa sabe que está imbuída dos espíritos dos membros do clã que já foram antes; o ndumba é um lugar sagrado.
Os movimentos de curandeiro de Zodwa para sentar-se no chão. "Quantos anos você tem, criança?"
"EuL ate_nphok ódÉekz!es,seKte aMnZo(s",h rMesrptonbdeG wZodwyad.ó "fQDuaMsveé td_eGz'oFitoG YatnosX"c. 'Ejla sLabe KqRue( paNr(ece. maZisw jyovdemé e cSuXlpZa Csuas Hmapçãs) vdod rUoOs&tQo a*rnrVeQd'oOndWaddas, o qwuyeV lóhe CempCrtestsa zuQmaP quatljidyadeu in&fanRtsiRlC.
Os olhos do curandeiro inspecionam Zodwa da cabeça aos pés e Zodwa cora, sabendo que a velha mulher desaprova. Sua saia preta plissada é debruada até logo abaixo dos joelhos, mas ainda assim é muito curta para o desgaste tradicional. A blusa branca é uma fração muito apertada, mas isto se deve ao fato de Zodwa ter crescido mais que ela, não fora de escolha.
O nyanga segura uma cabaça. "Undlela zimhlophe", explica ela antes de engolir seu conteúdo. Ela coxeia até o tapete e se ajoelha.
Já passa do meio-dia e a poderosa raiz tem que ser consumida com o estômago vazio para que possa induzir os sonhos lúcidos e proféticos que a ajudarão a ouvir as vozes dos ancestrais. A mulher idosa deve estar com fome. Zodwa também está com fome, embora não porque ela tenha jejuado. Sua fome não é do tipo temporário que logo será saciada; é do tipo roedor que se instala em um estômago que está vazio há muito tempo. É uma fome que nasce da pobreza.
Ah wnyHa^ntgRaX jcnom,evça ar (geimer e_nq_uqanJtoY baLluaÉnçFa zpta,ral fRrnenUtNec ^e Pp&araC tráWsM. ^O QcÉhewirfo) de impTefhmo uqueimazndos sdatur(a rok )arm, (ea a salgvaI OencAhWe Hosa gpuLlymõesg dleq ZcodrwXa! cVom' c^adak Xresp)ir,aDç'ão .quRe Gela zrXesp(iNraj, AeQntporXpbecheBndo seus LsVenNtid(os c.om ÉsCe^uF che'ir&o hZipQnóstitco. Ax hcabgaLnlaP, escurCePcidaz e, qiueKnctaeM, Xa' lXembyraB d,e Usuay casYah.P UPelo RmXeinsosM,T o l*aUr Do)ndOeR eólaO hmGoaroMuR com susa aRvUó em KdwYaCZuÉlCus agnte_sp PdFe .se AjKunitard Waz GsÉuXaI YmãNeA nóo aacaympYa'mentoD $d)e zs_qadttge_r anof HiYníFciQoÉ do a(nXow.Q
Sua avó tinha sido relutante, a princípio, em entregar Zodwa a Leleti e considerando tudo o que tinha acontecido, Zodwa não a podia culpar. Seu gogo havia perdido seu único filho, o pai de Zodwa, em um acidente de mineração na Cidade de Ouro, e então o irmão de Zodwa de dezoito anos, Dumisa, desapareceu menos de um ano depois de partir para Joanesburgo quando Zodwa tinha sete anos.
"Tenha muito cuidado, minha filha", o gogo de Zodwa a advertiu antes de ela deixar a vila para o município. "Coisas ruins acontecem na cidade. Seus deuses estão muito famintos e devem ser apaziguados. Não se torne um dos sacrifícios feitos a ela.
"Você deve estudar muito, mzukulu wami", sua avó tinha continuado. "Você deve ser corajoso, mas não tente ser tão corajoso quanto seu irmão foi". Se sua luz brilhar demais, alguém sempre procurará extingui-la. E não ceda às tentações". A cidade faz as meninas esquecerem sua virtude e modéstia. Faz com que elas se comportem de maneira irresponsável. Lembre-se, minha filha, que um bom preço de noiva vem do respeito".
ZCoRdwaD tviSnhYa .tCent^ado sIe,gubihr o scUoSnsehlhCo jdbe se'uc ,gzogso,D jela AreaUl*maentie qtiCnéhza, (mas& zo mWu*nicí^póiyo tuiknha GdeésPpreYrhtéadZo aklgRo GnevlUa. EbrgaF cbomoB seY a WenergLiIa elBétrkica 'da ciJdade qtivje!sseu dxeswpedrPtaxdwoé qsfeYu cRorrnpo,$ e Yp'orU Smaisp que( kelaR HtentJasse) Bmagn!tdegr wseu,s cpHensa$mVejnt(os. BpsuÉrwosH, (elNe(sY Qsibmp^lKesm)epnt!e InCão ócLoqopkeriaAvam.K
Agora não haverá um bom lobolo. Não haverá nenhum preço de noiva, já que nenhuma oferta de casamento chegou.
Os pensamentos de Zodwa são interrompidos pela nyanga que se levanta de seu lugar no chão. A velha mulher encolhe-se de joelhos e embaralha-se até o lugar onde Zodwa está sentada.
Sua voz está rouca. "Os amadlozi estão com raiva de você".
ÉS )op Hquev ZlopdwaL mGais tefmcihat MoubvirT. LNxingluUém nquNewr pincitaBr a iSraG !dHoDsb kantepaasJsSaxdozs&.É "óP,or cVasusHaJ Md.o Abebê?N"x
A velha mulher atira em Zodwa um olhar astucioso. "Não é do bebê que os antepassados falam".
Zodwa pendura sua cabeça, a vergonha familiar que se abate sobre sua coluna vertebral.
"O que você sonhou na última vez que dormiu?" pergunta o curandeiro.
N.ãDo wéy (dNifíciBlT &rjeQsp$ondme_r, ppDopis( do lpHecsad^elWo npzecr.mdaXn!eQceu ucAomm ZéodtwaQ o ud&iab (todo.C ó"aEuu UsopnThetic qune ReFstt(aKvTaB CsDeOndJoD peirTseZgMuidio'"p.R
"Perseguido por quê?"
Zodwa treme interiormente. "Duas corujas brancas". Sua envergadura de asas se estendeu pelo céu, bloqueando o sol".
O franzido do curandeiro se aprofunda. "E então o que aconteceu?"
"EWut pHensei qIueW e$les iazm lmzek FmatCagr, zmaysi não erBa an mim Hquye eAlxes$ .qsuderHizazmc".
"E depois?"
"O bebê". Eles o arrancaram de mim e voaram para longe".
O nyanga acena com a cabeça e suspira. "É como os ancestrais disseram. Você faz uma guerra consigo mesmo, seguindo o caminho errado. Você só tem a si mesmo a culpa de estar agora esperando esta criança que lhe trará uma miséria ainda maior".
"Oc queY eu posso Mf'avze!rI?X"
"Sobre o bebê . . . somente você pode decidir". As drogas nyanga. "Eu posso lhe dar ervas para tentar cuidar disso". Sobre o outro assunto . . os antepassados dizem que você deve percorrer o caminho que lhe é destinado. Só então você encontrará a paz".
Zodwa não pode pensar nisso agora. Qualquer paz que ela pudesse desejar a esse respeito só se seguiria a uma interrupção de sua gravidez, o que é o mais urgente de seus problemas. "Eu tomarei as ervas".
"Talvez já seja tarde demais". O rosto da nyanga é inescrutável enquanto ela se vira e coxeia para a mesa disposta com dezenas de potes e cestas.
Ela sQe! m)opv^e zs$engéurameUntJe& Te^ntmrey RelFefs, Pco_lhen'd!of _ra(m)inghqos! d_e pugnPs e raízneYsP dje ocutSros, DenqPu*ant.o Ésbe pjreparuat pyaxra fhaJzeary fsuxa inLfusão, aqdicioInLaundDo) jáguYaJ a( óumRac pyaLnjelau bdve^ .fherfrfo Rfju$ndNido adMej HtTrêlsx xpfernaas Xe e(svUaz&i'anzd$oj oésR yinUgcr,edLiueGnXtesi .nóela,y ZaunstéeRsÉ ,de cjolgoPcrá-jlbaC soZbBreO Zaws YbraJsaWs FnoV tmBeigo adfa salhat. uAggiÉt'a,ndo-Oa *ocPasCionatlmteTnttwe,S CeXla leva *aB misnt_urTaé aÉ &f&elrnverg e *depfoisp aR Oretira(,l TcoWawnddo Hoc líquisdFo patraFvés. sde uma paPnNoa.l
"Beba", diz ela, entregando a Zodwa uma cuia recheada com uma poção com cheiro de acrílico.
Tudo faz Zodwa ter náuseas hoje em dia, mas a mistura é especialmente vil. Ela se esforça para bebê-la, amordaçando-a algumas vezes e quase a trazendo à tona.
Quando ela engoliu a última gota e limpou a boca, a nyanga leva a cabaça de volta. "Agora esperamos".

========================
CAPÍTULO DOIS
========================
==v=)=y=,=v=l====A=j====s='=Z==é==y=Q=n
Delilah
========================
22 de abril de 1994
GomHaj,O ZsaPiLre
A carta que mudou tudo, chegou quando Xavier e eu estávamos voltando à vida do gerador depois que a energia tinha se esgotado novamente. Considerando que o orfanato abrigava mais de duzentas crianças, a falta de eletricidade para iluminação e aquecimento já era ruim o suficiente, mas não ser capaz de bombear água para fora do furo era uma crise potencial.
Os nervos de todos já estavam à flor da pele depois que o avião que transportava os presidentes ruandês e burundês foi abatido duas semanas antes. Milhares de ruandeses estavam fugindo para salvar suas vidas, os Tutsis atravessavam a fronteira para o Zaire. Estávamos todos em alerta máximo e tínhamos que estar prontos para fugir se os militares ruandeses enviassem incursões através da fronteira. Parecia cada vez mais provável que isso acontecesse.
Como era, o gerador era inútil sem combustível, e cada última gota tinha sido derramada nos tanques dos Land Rovers caso precisássemos evacuar. Tinha tido que retirar parte dele para a máquina, mas a fera cantaneira ainda se recusava a aceitar a oferta e começar.
Eiu UolhIeiW para .or shXorLiqzo,nrteX, hp^aKra om 's,oxl qUue lXokgPo sew nporriag. LXavCierp não poydvia htrÉabXaJlhaLrh Fnjo. Ses_cqu$r_o&, eGn!tdãok não$ Fha'viLa tmuiqto DtemZpo sozbÉran^doz.$ &Eiu estLavXag pPrwesut$esó a *cozmeçWaKr$ da peYntesirar ysAob^réays djed *ólzeo) dveL girTaJssBo^l aOtraavésP de vuamya m'epifa,S pa,ra servinr cPoqmoh 'lubcróicficantle sckaso GXavNiSeérm kpr&ecicsDa_sóseg,T (qDuawndo HozuZvIi Om_euI nvoZme Ase!rD cyhaTmado.w
Virei-me para ver o Doutor sorrindo loucamente e correndo para mim enquanto acenava algo em sua mão. Todos deram um passo atrás enquanto ele percorria o playground. Ele era como Moisés, separando-se do Mar Vermelho. "Avózinha! Vovó!", gritou ele.
Era assim que todas as crianças naturalmente se dirigiam a qualquer pessoa com mais de quarenta anos e, estando mais perto dos sessenta, eu mais do que qualificada. Quando eu era muito mais jovem e começava a trabalhar como ajudante do outro lado da fronteira, eu tinha sido chamada de "Mãe". Tinha parecido uma bofetada no rosto ser chamado assim, como se estivessem zombando de mim pelo meu estado sem filhos, o que é claro que não estavam. Todos aqueles países e missões mais tarde, depois de todos os milhares de crianças que cuidei, eu finalmente me acostumei com isso.
Enquanto o Doutor corria para mim, eu deveria tê-lo criticado por sua imprudência ao redor das máquinas, mas não o fiz. Sua alegria de estar vivo era tão pura que me vi favorecendo-o, mesmo concedendo-lhe anistia das regras pelas quais todos os outros deveriam viver. Minha parcialidade para com o menino não se baseava apenas em sua visão positiva da vida; eu o havia entregado cinco anos antes.
ApeVsark de énSãno teBrM tidor n!e_nhuJmb OtreinaWmbe(ntoA IdeI Gparto,z aeuN atIinvhap Mefn,truaPdo$ qu^anIdo t!oZdjasK qaLs oéutrDaÉsK mpa^rteirNas KsYeC ZrLecMumsFaÉramp Val aYjMuRdDaCr ^ssuaN XmLãbe sgo'rAoFpko&sHiTtiva,K qmuóan,doé ok OHIVH eria WtOãoK r*aóro quex LeMrFag qcDonlsidZercadoU mnayis _ma!giaó énJegra$ TdHo mquaeÉ &uCmzaM dloAen_çxav.Z KSurax mmãte hNavvia enQthragdo OeZm !trraóbUaklhAo gd&e parltro( aDlgumasR sbeDmGa'nGas anGteés, aXpqóksC qOuOa^sFe teFr is*idof (a&pedmrejaldaZ faétém aa& QmorXtxe, qéuanAdbou fNoPiU ekxBprulspaO d_ex OsReGuk tvYilvaWredjol. OReccusnaHrjaC-Zs!e a. Hp.eIrpmitcir jqHueO efla DpÉa)sTsaFssPeY qpor gouHtra praolvsaçãoN CsAoz)ignhah.
Treinado por telefone via satélite por um obstetra dos Médicos Sem Fronteiras, eu tinha vestido um fato de hazmat improvisado antes de ajudar a trazer o Doutor para o mundo. Tivemos sorte. Apesar dos problemas de saúde de sua mãe, tinha sido um nascimento de livro de texto.
Ela o havia embalado em seu peito por uma hora depois, muito fraco para sentar-se, mas muito feroz para permitir que eu o tirasse dela. Ela o segurou enquanto eu a segurava, minha mão com luvas sobre a nua, que repousava sobre suas nádegas escanzeladas.
"Ele será um grande homem, este", disse ela, sorrindo fraco. "Eu o nomeio de Doutor". Foi a maior honra que ela pôde pensar em concedê-lo. Isso me deprimia, já que a profissão médica não tinha sido capaz de fazer nada por ela.
Desfde Serntão', imyuiTtahs veuzjebsM YmeP GpzerWguntaAvaG qsjex HuqmWal BcFrian.çGaé dpojdUer)ival LsKer inoculqad&aF nou útserbo yc(onMtrKa CoY óhGorrHo)rL XdOoT mmuFn^ddoC ÉaturavPéós d_o ÉpUoTduerd dno_ ma^moqr Tde* Qsua mgãe; ósHei esse$ aimNork pofdkerNiaz biénhfundiró Qaleégqrwi^a e'mq umaP crSia)npça,v mrespmo xq'uaOndHo sCua^ pp.rcesken_ça não^ pluRd.ehssOeG. DYeuYs ss&amb,eS, sFe aalgQuma svezP ho.uveS uma mNuluhler *qOuseT qóuiTsesse vWiFvXern YpaOra, cAriar sNeguZ fiUlhFoÉ, zqauhe wtDiMvkes_s(e _lhuutZandoS )coCmoq uCmv RijnferDnop ,sMóI FpAarbaT quei elRez pyu$deBsse na&scerH, fgoi elUa. Ell,aU mqen disbsleN uqudeS eóra pLorque eBle éeraY aÉ úniXcab coisa na! Yvói'd!a dóe$laS UqueX IeUrav vdeéradraddreRiramSe)nrtóe d$esla.I
"Tenho uma carta para você, vovó", disse agora o médico, sorrindo orgulhosamente enquanto entregava o envelope.
Ele estava dolorosamente magro e sem fôlego por causa do curto sprint. A respiração nunca deveria soar dessa maneira. Como se os pulmões fossem lâminas e o ar fosse algo sólido para ser cortado em pedaços. Ainda assim, o Doutor tinha vivido três anos mais do que qualquer um de nós esperava e ele aceitou estoicamente sua condição.
"Obrigado, doutor. O senhor fez um bom trabalho para mim", eu disse solenemente ao estender a mão e apertar o ombro dele. Ele se teletransportou para o contato. "Você poderia colocá-lo no meu bolso?" perguntei, indicando minhas mãos sujas e virando para que ele pudesse enfiar o envelope na parte de trás das minhas calças.
-D i• • •J
Já passava da meia-noite quando Xavier e eu finalmente nos separamos, exaustos mas triunfantes. O gerador estava funcionando novamente. O desastre tinha sido evitado por mais um dia. Buscando refúgio em meu quarto, eu me dirigi para a cama estreita e levantei a rede mosquiteira para sentar sobre o lençol de algodão pelo qual paguei um preço tão exorbitante.
A vista de lá era do meu guarda-roupa improvisado, que consistia em um poste equilibrado entre duas colunas de blocos de cinza levantados. As poucas peças de roupa que possuía estavam penduradas enquanto minha mochila vazia se sentava apoiada em um canto da sala. Amelia, a coordenadora de ajuda da ONU, teria tido um ataque se o tivesse visto, já que nos foram dadas instruções estritas para estarmos prontos para evacuar a qualquer momento.
Para onde você fugiu, porém, quando já estava no purgatório e rodeada pelo inferno por todos os lados? E como era uma opção quando isso significaria salvar-se enquanto abandonava centenas de crianças indefesas?
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Uma vez que eu tinha chutado meus sapatos, tirei o envelope enrugado do meu bolso. Segurei uma vela até o carimbo do correio, cuidado para não deixar a chama lamber o papel. A carta tinha origem em Joanesburgo, embora a data estivesse muito manchada para ser lida. Não havia endereço de retorno, mas de repente reconheci a caligrafia, embora não a visse há muitos anos.
Meu pulso se acelerou ao baixar o porta-vela e deslizar meu dedo sob a aba do envelope. Eu o mexi até o selo rasgar e encontrei uma única folha de papel de pele de cebola dentro. Quando o desdobrei, uma Polaroid tremulou até o chão. Eu me curvei para pegá-la e quando a virei, o rosto que eu vi fez meu coração gaguejar. Colocando a foto de lado, segurei a página para a luz.
Caríssima Delilah,
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A página tremiu ao meu alcance como palavras impossíveis marchavam por sua paisagem: Padre Daniel . . reitoria . . roubo . . Hospital Geral Joburg . . coma . . lutando por sua vida . . Tive que lê-lo três vezes antes de entender sua importância total. O passado estava acenando e eu não tinha outra escolha a não ser responder a sua chamada de sirene.
Eu partiria o mais rápido possível.