I feel as though I'm floating in a formless space, where not even the weight of gravity exists. My body does not ache, does not weigh me down, does not suffer. It is as if I had been torn away from the physical world and plunged into a deep trance, like those hypnosis sessions I once saw on television.
"Awake, son, it's time to get up."
A voice. Maternal. Serene. Warm.
My heart races. Could it be… could it be that Maria came all the way to Cainã? After the consecration of the altar, everything spun around me, and I felt as though I would faint. Perhaps they warned my mother, and she rushed here to see me. The simple thought makes my chest burn with longing. Maria, Emanuelle, Anthony… my family in Brumaria. I would give anything to hold them once more.
I force my eyelids open, heavy as iron, until at last I manage to see.
Sunlight strikes me. A bright, clear day, alive. So different from the darkness of the ritual.
"Happy birthday, son!" the feminine voice repeats.
And then I see.
My heart shatters and rebuilds itself at once. It's her. My mother. The face I know better than any other, the gaze that shielded me through every storm, the presence that sustained me even when I no longer wished to live.
"Mother?" I whisper, and the word cuts me like a blade, because it is tenderness and pain at once.
"Happy birthday, son!" — now it is another voice. Deep, firm, paternal.
My eyes well up even more. I would recognize that voice even in eternity.
"Father…?"
My chest nearly bursts when a smaller figure appears from behind them, running straight toward me.
"Happy birthday, Rodrigo!" she says, with that sweet, childish voice that still echoes in my memories.
"Lu…" My voice breaks, and I can only call her by the nickname. My arms close around her, desperate to hold her forever. Tears pour in rivers, unstoppable.
"Why are you crying, Rodrigo?" my mother asks, kneeling to meet my eyes. Her tender gaze pierces through me.
Why? Why am I crying? I try to answer, but all I feel is a crushing pain, as if I had lost something… as if they had vanished from me forever. A nightmare, I think. It must have been only that.
"I had a nightmare, Mother," I murmur, trying to stifle the sobs, wiping the tears with the back of my hand.
Luciana clings tighter to me, as if she could drive away every shadow.
"What dream did you have, brother?" she asks with the pure conviction of someone who believes she can heal the world with her voice alone.
How could I tell her? How could I explain that in my dream — no, in my delirium — she died? That my parents were taken from me? That I became a monster myself?
I smile. Empty, fragile, but it is all I can give.
"I dreamed of the bogeyman, Lu," I lie, twisting sorrow into innocence.
"I'll protect you, big brother!" she replies with conviction. "I won't let him get you!"
Her words are so certain they warm my broken chest. I embrace her again, tightly, as if I could keep time from tearing us apart.
"Thank you, Lu," I whisper. "I'll protect you too."
Still seated on the bed, I catch myself wondering: who are Maria, Anthony, Emanuelle?
Those names echo in my mind with weight, yet they feel strange, distant. I remember that in the dream I called them family… but my family is here, right in front of me.
Cainã… what is that? A city? Well, I live in São Paulo, capital of the State of São Paulo. There is no Cainã in my world.
But then… that dream? The nightmare where my mother, my father, and Lu—no, Luciana—were killed by Uncle Lucius?
Lucius. Just thinking that name makes my heart race. The same suffocating pressure returns. He killed my father. He killed my mother. He killed Luciana. And after that… I… I was reborn in a world where magic exists.
I close my eyes. Nonsense. That can't exist. It's only another fantasy. I need to stop reading those reincarnation stories. I need to stop believing my pain could be real anywhere outside my own head.
Luciana runs out of the room, laughing, darting toward the door. My mother follows after her, telling her not to run so she won't trip. The scene is too vivid. Too warm. The smell of coffee drifting in from the kitchen. The sound of small feet against the wooden floor.
But my father stays, unmoving, watching me. Then he approaches slowly, with that calm presence he always had. He sits at my side on the bed.
"What nightmare did you have, son?" he asks, his voice steady, yet filled with care.
I look at him. Suddenly, every image of him being stabbed in my "dream" slices through me like a blade. It is so vivid I feel a physical ache in my chest. Before I realize it, I throw myself into his arms, clutching him as though my life depends on it. If I let go, he will vanish before my eyes.
"I dreamed that you, Mom, and Lu were murdered by Uncle Lucius…" My voice trembles, fractured by fear. "I grew up alone in an orphanage, with no one. The loneliness… the thirst for vengeance… it devoured me until I became a monster, killing people for pleasure."
The words spill out like a confession, a desperate release. I tell him about the dream, about the deaths, about the orphanage, about the reincarnation into another world. And he just looks at me. Not with fear. Not with judgment. But with that paternal gaze I always knew — a gaze of impossible understanding, almost divine.
"Don't worry, son," he says, running his hand through my hair with the same gesture from when I was small. "It was only a dream."
He holds me tighter against his chest, and says, with the same calm as before:
"Everything will be all right."
For a moment, I believe him. For a moment, the weight of solitude eases.
"Let's have breakfast," he continues, standing up. "Your mother made your favorite."
He begins walking toward the door, while I remain seated, my hands trembling. The smell of coffee fills the room, and I no longer know if it is real, or merely another memory trying to deceive me.
I put on a pair of board shorts with wave and surfboard patterns, along with a red tank top, since the heat of that day seemed to cling to my skin. I slipped into my Havaianas, lying carelessly by the side of the bed, and went straight to the kitchen.
The table was set: a warm manioc cake still steaming, releasing that sweet, comforting aroma I had always loved; a glass of chocolate milk; and freshly baked French rolls from Uncle Lauro's bakery — he always sold them to us on credit, a simple gesture that made all the difference on tight days.
The scent of the freshly baked cake, the crackle of the crust of bread still warm… my mouth watered.
I lifted my gaze and saw, on the back wall, the poorly patched holes from the house's lack of upkeep. And there, taped over the peeling paint, was a poster of my favorite hero: Batman.
During the week, I had noticed my parents unusually quiet, exchanging knowing glances whenever they thought I wouldn't notice. So this was why… they had been preparing this small surprise for my birthday.
My heart overflowed with joy. It was, without a doubt, one of the happiest days of my life.
"Happy birthday, Rodrigo!" they all said at once, with smiles that lit up our humble dining room.
"Tha—" My voice broke mid-word. Like a lightning strike, the memory of the dream hit me: I saw another father, another mother, two siblings who weren't here… all handing me a heavy grimoire. The scene was so real, so vivid, that for an instant the scent of cake vanished, replaced by the metallic chill of that impossible memory.
Then, as if nothing had happened, the image dissolved. All I saw was my mother handing me a slice of cake, her serene smile returning warmth to my chest.
More than two weeks had passed since that "dream."
The days went on as usual, repetitive, as if nothing had happened — and yet, the memory of it never left my mind.
My father returned to his work routine, while my mother finally took the vacation she had postponed for almost two years. Luciana and I enjoyed that time together, playing, sketching in our art notebooks, helping our mother whenever she asked. Of course, I did more, being the oldest, but Luciana always tried to help as well, with her innocent energy that lit up the house.
"Rodrigo, can you grab the floor cloth for me?" my mother shouted from outside.
"Coming!" I replied, dropping my colored pencils and standing up in a hurry.
The sky was overcast, heavy with clouds, and the day's cold air contrasted almost cruelly with the warmth and joy of my recent birthday.
I went to the bathroom, where my mother had the habit of stacking the floor cloths. She used them to dry the tiles after a bath, since we didn't have a shower stall and the water spread across the floor. I grabbed one of the damp, soapy cloths and headed back outside.
My mother was in the backyard, hanging white sheets on the clothesline. The fabric fluttered in the cold wind, and for an instant I saw her differently: she was no longer my mother.
Her body, for a second, shifted into that of a woman with red hair, deep blue eyes, dressed in a simple beige outfit with a cloth tied over her head. She looked to be just under thirty, and when she turned her face toward me, her lips moved with a phrase that echoed like a whisper in the depths of my mind:
"Thank you, Elian."
I blinked, and the vision shattered like broken glass. There she was again — my mother, holding the sheet and clipping it to the line, unaware of the change I had just witnessed.
A sharp pang struck my chest. It was as if something inside me was split, as though I were living two realities at once — one that felt natural and another that insisted on haunting me, like a shadow. I no longer knew which one I was leaving behind.
"Did something happen, son?" my mother asked, noticing the way I stared.
"No, Mom… nothing happened," I replied, forcing a smile. Doubt gnawed at me, but I didn't dare share it. I did what I always did to chase away that emptiness: I hugged her tightly, clinging to her warmth. "I love you so much! More than anything!"
She wrapped me in her arms, with that love that never demanded explanations.
"I love you so much too, my son," she said softly, almost solemnly. "More than you can imagine."
In that moment, the chill of the overcast day ceased to exist. All that remained was her embrace — a warmth I feared losing, a warmth that seemed to remind me of another life, another mother, another name.