POV: RENATA SILVEIRA.
It was a typical February morning. And there I was, slowly sipping my coffee, sitting in bed, a book in my hands. The cover showed a man standing on the edge of a cliff, talking to a homeless person.
Quite unusual… but intriguing. I calmly turned the pages, enjoying the cozy silence of my room. I was slightly excited about the read.
The narrative was inconsistent, yet I was very interested in the premise, or rather, the chosen topic: dreams.
All the sentences, despite being simple, held ideas I identified with, and which I felt connected well to the whole book.
And there were words that seemed to be used especially for readers of my style. I like stories like that, ones that fit into the cracks of the soul.
The theme of dreams has always been one of the most fascinating to me. My favorite works address it, and I've always interpreted the meaning of dreams as a mystery to be solved.
'And I was Sherlock Holmes responsible for the case!'
Every dream was a mysterious case I was thrown into and had to solve. Like a good nosy child, I always dove into these mysteries to try and unravel them.
Clearly, I had few successes, but the adventure was worth it!
After all, dreams are ways to understand who we are and what we can become. Everything occurs as distortions of reality.
Moldable, volatile. They can be good or bad. For me, they are reflections of human nature in its rawest form.
A blank canvas: it can serve for ultra-realistic drawing techniques or for an excited child with colorful chalk.
They are fragments of the unconscious, like echoes of stories that haven't been fully told. Every symbol, every seemingly random detail… can carry an important meaning. Just like books, dreams say a lot about us.
They are broken mirrors of our identity.
And perhaps that's why I enjoy studying the hidden layers of a narrative, a life, a thought so much. In many moments, I feel divided between reality and this other dimension where everything is freer, stranger, but also more honest.
'Stopping to think, I'm even a bit too fixated on this theme… Why is that?'
Maybe out of fear of facing the rigid real world? Maybe out of hope of finding answers that waking life insists on hiding?
Or perhaps, deep down, because this dreamlike universe allows me to be whoever I want to be, or at least explore versions of myself that would never dare to exist outside of my soul.
Knock-knock. Knock-knock.
"Mommm? What is it?" I asked, without getting out of bed.
The door opened slightly, and I saw my mother with a startled expression that bothered me, but before I could say anything, she added…
"Renata, it's about Helena! She had an accident, she's in the hospital!"
That sentence paralyzed me for an instant. A chill ran down my spine. Her name echoed in my mind. Helena. My best friend and confidant.
What on earth happened to her? Is she okay?
Various questions popped into my mind at that moment, but I had to contain them for now.
"Do you know what happened?" I asked, already getting up to get ready to leave.
"Not exactly, Eduarda just called, and told me, apparently there was a gas explosion near where she was and she ended up getting hurt, she's hospitalized apparently." she replied, with a tone of concern.
"Can I go visit her now, Mom?" I asked, quickly packing my bag.
"Of course, daughter, that's exactly why I came to call you, go there to keep her company and tell Helena that everything will be fine." She comforted me.
Helena and I had shared many years of friendship, so much so that our mothers had been friends for a long time too, so if one got sick, the other's mother would worry too.
It was a really nice feeling to have that support. As soon as I finished packing my bag, I dressed as fast as I could.
I left the house like a rocket, without thinking of anything else.
My head was empty, except for disconnected images of what could have happened.
Gas explosion? Where could she have been? Was she seriously hurt?
'No, wait… If she can already receive visitors, it shouldn't have been anything serious, right?'
Memories of laughter during lunch breaks last year, of long conversations late into the night, of heated discussions about books and conspiracy theories broke my moment of anxious questions.
The weather was different from days ago. The city now had a mild, cloudy air, with a light rain that made everything grayer.
And my heart felt heavy. It wasn't just the fear of what might have happened to her.
It was the feeling that the coincidence, which was, by the way, horrible, of her having suffered this accident, right before the start of classes, would probably be pounding in her head right now.
I passed through the few streets separating my house from the city center, where the hospital was located. Upon arriving, I quickly went to the reception, my chest tight.
"Excuse me… I wanted to ask about a patient. Her name is Helena Ivyra. Can I visit her?"
The receptionist looked at me with undisguised surprise. Her eyes showed a different feeling before she stepped away.
"Wait a moment," she said, heading towards the internal corridors. That made me even more uneasy.
What kind of accident could it have been? And why did she react that way upon hearing Helena's name?
While waiting, I observed the place, it was a relatively large hospital, with several rooms divided by stages of care.
The reception had a white counter with red details.
The environment was occupied by groups of seats organized like a small corridor.
The constant comings and goings of staff and patients created that typical hospital routine: busy, yet controlled. A baby cried in the background.
A woman argued with a nurse about visiting hours. And, in the midst of it all, I was there, just waiting to hear something about my friend.
A few minutes later, the receptionist returned.
"Come with me," she said, with a slight smile, different from her earlier surprise.
"It was good you came. Helena… she's been very sad since yesterday. Cried several times."
I nodded my thanks and followed her down the corridor. I turned right, then left, and stopped before a white door to a simple inpatient room.
My heart pounded. The receptionist left me alone. I knocked lightly. No answer. I slowly opened the door and entered.
There she was: lying on the stretcher, her face pale and her dark brown hair disheveled, her expression somber.
She looked so fragile… so different from the vibrant person I knew. It broke my heart to see her like that.
"Good morning, my dear, Are you alright?" I asked, closing the door behind me.
She turned her face, annoyed.
"It wasn't visiting hours," she mumbled.
"Part of our deal, remember? I protect you when I can. You protected me when you could."
"Renata, that was like eight years ago! How can you remember these things?"
"Says the snob who knows all the literary schools by heart," I retorted with a mocking smile.
She adjusted herself better in bed and sat up, leaning her back against the headboard, and let out a heavy sigh.
"Hmph… Damn it… I always forget you're used to my complaining," she commented. "Wait… You came to visit me at the hospital without any chocolate or anything? What a friend, huh…"
"Ah, the Helena I know is back to normal, good as new…" I said, with a slightly mocking smile.
She took a deep breath before continuing. Her voice came out hesitant, almost a whisper.
"I guess you want to know what happened, right?" Helena said, in a low, almost inaudible voice. I moved closer to the stretcher, pulled a chair from the corner, and placed it beside her.
"If you feel comfortable, I'd like to know. Mom said it was a gas explosion, is that true?" I asked, recalling the comment.
"What? Gas explosion? That bastard, he even lied about the cause!" Helena grumbled, irritated with someone.
"Who's the bastard?" I asked, trying to understand what had happened.
"I went to the library to study a bit. But at the entrance… something strange happened with a man," she said, with an evident tone of exhaustion.
"And then I found a weird book, hidden in a magical apparatus. It gave me a literary mark… then it vanished immediately. It was very bizarre."
"Wait… what do you mean a hidden book?" I asked, eyes wide.
"Two guys started fighting inside the library. Like cat and mouse. But then one of them looked like a cop… or some kind of secret agent. He was fighting an international fugitive named H." she continued, not noticing my question.
"Whoa, holy crap… that'd make a good movie, huh?" I joked, trying to interrupt her complaining with a bit more liveliness.
She gave me a crooked look, laden with impatience.
"Jokes at this hour?" she inquired.
"Hehe… it's just to cheer you up, you know that," I replied, shrugging.
"You're lucky I'm a bit upset because of Rose…" she mumbled.
"What happened?" I asked, now serious.
"She died…" she said, her voice choked.
I felt a tightness in my chest. Rose was a very important figure in Helena's life. An old friend, older, almost like a mentor.
Whenever Helena spoke of her, her eyes shone with a kind of admiration I rarely saw.
"I'm so sorry… Helena. I know how important she was to you."
She looked away, her eyes watery. And then, her voice heavy, she began to unburden herself. She spoke of the anger, the loss, the confusion.
Of how everything happened too fast. How things happened, and how she couldn't do anything to change it. Silence dominated the room, broken only by Helena's heavy breathing.
She had just unburdened herself, and her words still hung in the air, laden with anguish. I looked at her for a moment, gathering my own thoughts before speaking.
I knew I needed to choose my words carefully, not to console her with illusions, but to anchor her in reality. I moved a little closer, speaking in a firm tone, but full of understanding:
"Helena, you need to understand that just because we control some enchantments doesn't mean we can control reality. Or rather… we're not able to command things as we want."
She sighed, looking away, as she slowly adjusted herself on the stretcher, as if each movement carried the weight of what she felt.
"I know that…" she murmured.
"I need to learn to stop wanting to control things."
There was sincerity in her voice, and also a trace of weariness, the kind that comes from the constant struggle against oneself.
"Yes… you're a bit stubborn about these things," I commented, trying to soften the moment with a slight smile. "That's why it's always good for me to be with you. That way I can scold you when you need it."
She offered a subtle smile. Those small cracks in her sadness gave me courage. I took another step and hugged her, feeling her tension gradually dissolve in my arms.
I stayed there for a moment, just holding her. Then, in a lower tone, but full of truth, I added: "And about what happened at the library… I don't know what happened, but I want you to know that I believe you."
She didn't respond immediately, but the way she rested her head on my shoulder was more eloquent than any words.