Days turned into a quiet blur of rejection and exhaustion.
Every morning, Luiz woke early, fixed his collar, and walked across the small city — visiting cafés, repair shops, and even construction sites. Everywhere he went, the answer was the same:"We'll call you if we need someone."They never did.
By the fourth day, his shoes were caked with dust, and the ache in his ribs had turned into a constant throb. He'd sold his last wristband for food the night before, and the coins in his pocket barely bought a bus ride back to campus.
Still, he refused to give up.
At dusk, the streets began to glow — yellow lights reflecting off puddles as evening mist rolled in. He stopped at a narrow alley where a dim sign flickered: "Café Liora." The smell of roasted beans drifted through the air.
He pushed the door open. A bell chimed softly.
"Sorry, we're about to close," a woman called from behind the counter.
Luiz opened his mouth to apologize — and froze.
The woman turned, her auburn hair tied up messily, her brown eyes widening as they met his.
"Luiz?"
It took him a moment to place her face. Then memory clicked.Clara.The girl from his first semester — the one who used to sit behind him in class, always scribbling poetry on napkins and sharing her coffee when he forgot his wallet.
"Clara," he breathed.
She smiled slowly, disbelief softening her expression. "I thought you… left the country or something."
"Something like that," Luiz said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've been… trying to get back on my feet."
Her eyes flicked over him — the cheap jacket, the tired eyes, the faint bruise near his jaw that hadn't fully healed. She didn't ask questions, just walked around the counter.
"You look hungry," she said. "Sit."
He tried to protest, but she was already pouring a cup of coffee and setting a small plate in front of him.
They talked as the shop emptied — quietly, cautiously, like two people walking through old ruins.
Clara told him she'd been working at the café for a year while saving for art school. The owner, an old family friend, was kind but strict.
"And you?" she asked softly.
Luiz hesitated. "Trying to find work. Anything, really. It's harder when you've… been gone for a while."
She studied him for a long moment, then smiled faintly. "You always were stubborn. Still are."
He laughed under his breath. "Guess it's the only thing I've got left."
When he finished eating, she disappeared into the back room. He thought she was done with the conversation — until she returned, holding a folded piece of paper.
"The owner mentioned she might need someone part-time," Clara said, handing it to him. "Nothing fancy — deliveries, cleaning, helping with supplies. But it's steady work."
Luiz looked at her, unsure if he should take it. "Why are you helping me?"
Her eyes softened. "Because back then, you helped me. You just didn't realize it."
The café lights flickered as the night deepened.
Luiz folded the paper carefully, a small flicker of warmth stirring beneath the weight of everything he'd lost.
"Thanks, Clara," he said quietly.
She smiled. "Try not to vanish this time."
As he stepped outside, the cold wind bit at his cheeks — but for the first time in months, it didn't feel unbearable.
He glanced down at the paper, the café's address written in neat handwriting.
For the first time since leaving the island, Luiz felt something almost foreign.Hope.
But across the street, a figure leaned against a lamp post, watching as Luiz walked away — face hidden beneath the shadow of a hood.
When Luiz turned the corner, the figure pulled out a phone.
"He's found something," the voice murmured. "What should we do?"
A pause. Then a woman's voice on the other end — calm, cold, familiar.
"Let him work," she said. "For now."
The line went dead.