A letter in the table. Spilled coffee, spotting one has left of the paper. Still it gave to read. ' ' I tired of living in this cativeiro.' ' Spot of coffee. ' ' I find that I must go even so, then its silence will have paz' '. Spot of coffee. One sat down in the chair next, the letter kneaded between the fingers.
The hand in the head went up. It stopped. It thought. It only had a place where it could be. But not. Of this it a time.
A time to think if the decision was wrong or If she was most correct of its life. It would snow very soon, and the things were not more the same ones. Old, the snow was so happy. So pure and symbolic. Two days. Two days. To search it or leaves to leave it? The choice most important that it would have to make. Soon per the morning, without I smell feeling it of strong coffee of the kitchen. Or per the afternoon, without watering the garden. The greenhouse was closed in the snow. But in this time without cares, the snow would fall on all the species. At night, without the special tea, whose prescription it never swears to say. According to day, or last. Half night and stocking, but already the following day. The bed still seemed empty and bigger that before, while the room seemed so quiet how much a grave. The window seemed locked the seven keys. It waited the day to be born. The car did not bind because of the cold. It caught a taxi. ' ' Leave it can me exactly here, that now I go andando' ' , and it paid the marked one in the taximeter. Two blocks of white blackout, a snow of a meter already takes the city. In the end of a narrow street, one carries wooden spends. Starbucks wanted to know more. Strokes in the oak. Same it opened. ' ' What she came to make here? ' '. She asked calmly. ' ' The coffee spotted to another part of carta' ' , it said, in serious tone. ' ' It wanted that it said, looking in my eyes, what he was escrito' '. Silence. It was its arms, and abraos. In return to the captivity. Bianca Braga de Carvalho (Lady Viana).