The music folder rested on the veranda table, open in front of Elisa. The violin lay at her side, and the first strokes of a new composition were beginning to appear on staff paper. The pen danced lightly between her fingers. There was silence, but not loneliness. For the first time in weeks, what she felt was focus.
The music was returning gradually. Like a language one never forgets, even after years without speaking it.
Elisa spent her mornings transcribing melodies, harmonies, and counterpoints. In secret, she created her own arrangements and sold original sheet music to independent musicians and conservatories. She used a pseudonym. And she was already beginning to be recognized within the discrete circles of instrumental music in Rio.
Eduardo never knew.
He believed she spent her days between the couch and the kitchen. And she let him believe it.
Meanwhile, Elisa had also returned to studying—diligently—functional neurology, one of the areas that fascinated her most. She bought books, participated in webinars, and watched lectures while he slept or was away.
Each bit of knowledge absorbed was like recovering a piece from the puzzle of herself.
------
I transferred an allowance to your account — Eduardo said one night, without even looking at her.
You don't need to — she replied, maintaining her composure. — I'm managing well on my own.
He frowned, surprised.
Are you saying you're buying things with... what? Charity bake sales?
I barely spend anything. And what I need, I take care of myself.
He gave a dry smile.
If you want to pretend to be independent, fine. But don't act like a modern woman, Elisa. You're a wife. Nothing beyond that.
She swallowed the bitter taste of humiliation and said nothing. She just got up from the table and went to the bedroom. She didn't cry. She had already learned not to cry for those who cannot see.
But that night, while playing a soft melody on the violin, she poured all her pain into the notes. As if the music spoke for her.
And it did.
-----
Days later, Eduardo was at a luxury restaurant in Barra with two childhood friends: André Carvalho and César Leal. They all laughed loudly, surrounded by wine glasses and old memories.
So? — César teased. — How's the new wife? They say Ms. Santos is beautiful, but mysterious.
Eduardo laughed, with a subtle tone of contempt.
It's just a contract. She takes care of the house, cooks, arranges flowers. A discreet housewife. Nothing very... stimulating.
André raised an eyebrow.
Wait, isn't she Francisca Santos' granddaughter? They say that's one of the richest families in Rio...
The grandmother, yes. She... well, she just obeyed. Lives in my apartment, keeps quiet, doesn't interfere. It's convenient.
The friends laughed. They toasted to practicality.
But César prodded:
And Sophia? Have you ever spoken to her again?
Eduardo was silent for a second.
Then, he drank his wine and answered:
Sophia chose the runways. She was never real. It was... desire. Image. Nothing more than that.
But even as he said this, his eyes emptied for a moment.
------
That same night, when he arrived home, he found Elisa reading in a corner of the living room, wearing glasses with her hair tied in a loose bun. The image of gentle intellectuality. Of calmness. Of a woman who demanded nothing, who didn't invade his space. Whom he barely noticed.
But at that moment, perhaps influenced by the conversation at the restaurant or by frustration with his own business affairs, Eduardo felt something boil inside him.
Have you ever thought about looking in the mirror before waiting for me? — he said, dryly. — You look like a tired librarian.
Elisa slowly raised her eyes, trying to understand what motivated that unprovoked attack.
I wasn't waiting for you. I was just... reading.
Great. At least you're entertaining yourself with something. Because let's face it... there's not much else for you to do, is there?
She closed the book calmly, but her fingers were trembling.
Eduardo... why do you speak to me this way?
He shrugged, already heading to the bedroom.
Because it's the truth. You have no idea who I am, what I carry. You're only here because our grandfathers wanted it. And because I gave in.
She bit her lower lip, holding back the urge to cry. Not in front of him.
I never asked anything of you. I only tried to offer something.
He stopped at the door, without looking back.
Then stop trying. What we have is enough.
And he disappeared down the hallway.
-----
Later, in the bedroom, Elisa sat with the violin in her arms.
She played in silence, tears falling without sound. She played until her fingers hurt. Until her sorrow transformed into melody.
And then she wrote.
A new score, laden with pain, but also with strength.
Elisa was not a housewife. She was not a luxury doll.
She was an artist. A doctor in training. A complete woman.
And no matter how much he tried to erase her with words, she flourished in the silence.