The email arrived in mid-morning. Elisa was sitting on the veranda, drinking her tea, when she saw the sender: Villa-Lobos Conservatory.
Her heart beat faster. She opened the message with slightly trembling fingers.
Dear Clara Vianna,
Your latest composition was received with great enthusiasm by the quartet. We are organizing a private recital in September and would like to present three of your works. Attached are the copyright assignment contract and the schedule. We would be honored by your presence, even if anonymous.
She had to read it three times. Three works. Three of her scores. Three messages from the world saying: you have value.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sun touch her face. She smiled to herself. There was no one to share that joy with and, in a way, that made everything even more symbolic. It was hers alone.
That same day, the payment for the composition appeared in her bank account. The amount, added to other smaller works she had been doing under the pseudonym, already exceeded R$ 35,000.00.
She looked at the balance for a moment. Below the amount, as always, the monthly transfer of R$ 100,000.00, made by Eduardo on the 5th of each month, remained untouched. She never touched that money. Never needed to.
And the most ironic thing of all: Eduardo didn't even suspect.
------
Meanwhile, at the Fasano restaurant, Eduardo was laughing alongside his same two friends as always: César and André.
So, any news about your "porcelain wife"? — César teased, while summoning the waiter with a snap of his fingers.
Eduardo raised his glass of whiskey, leaning back in the leather chair.
Nothing much. She's still there, in my apartment, doing who knows what. I guess she arranges flowers, dusts books, whatever.
Dude, you pay a hundred thousand a month for a woman to water plants? — André laughed, almost spitting out his drink.
A contract is a contract. — Eduardo shrugged. — Her grandmother wanted it that way. And you know what? At least she doesn't get on my nerves. Doesn't give opinions on anything. Doesn't intrude. Doesn't get in the way. It's quite a luxury, actually.
I bet she lives with her head in the clouds — César commented. — Has that clueless look, like someone who can't even hold a decent conversation.
Eduardo laughed without thinking.
Elisa is... invisible. She's the type of woman you forget is in the room. She barely even casts a shadow properly.
Everyone laughed.
But inside, something in Eduardo faltered. A recent memory — the smell of homemade soup, the gentle taste that reminded him of his grandmother, Elisa's silence as she cared for him without expecting anything.
He pushed the thought away. It doesn't matter. She was only there out of obligation. Nothing more.
------
While Eduardo was wallowing in ego and contempt, Elisa was sitting in front of the grand piano at the conservatory studio, accompanying two musicians who were testing one of her compositions.
You have a rare melodic sensitivity, praised the conductor in charge. — Are you sure you don't want to appear publicly as the author?
She smiled, kindly.
Not yet. But thank you very much. Really.
She left there feeling lighthearted.
That same week, she bought two advanced neurology books and a collection on degenerative diseases. She read every night, between sheet music and tea. She was preparing to return. To resume medicine, when the time came.
She was patient.
But determined.
She knew who she was. Even if no one saw it. Yet.
------
At home, the distance between her and Eduardo only grew. He barely looked at her. She barely tried to talk. They shared the same space with the same indifference that strangers share a bench in a waiting room.
But, in the silence, Elisa was many.
Composer. Reader. Scholar. Woman.
While Eduardo... remained trapped in his own vanity.
------
On a rainy morning, Mrs. Célia brought the bank statement for Elisa to sign — as she did every month.
Here it is, ma'am. Your account. Transfer of one hundred thousand made as usual.
Elisa signed calmly.
Thank you, Mrs. Célia. The amount remains untouched. As always.
The housekeeper looked at her for a moment, with discreet curiosity.
Have you never... even thought about using it?
For what? — she said, with a tranquil smile. — What I have already sustains me. And what I am... nobody pays for that.
The housekeeper smiled back.
One day he'll realize, ma'am. Everything he failed to see.
Elisa looked outside, watching the rain hit the window.
Maybe. Or maybe... it's not for him to see. Maybe it's just for me.
------
That night, Eduardo arrived late from a meeting. He passed by Elisa in the living room without even noticing she was there, sitting, reviewing handwritten compositions. She looked up, but said nothing.
He didn't either.
Each remained in their own world — his, made of status and appearance. Hers, built in silence, with layers of talent and truth.
And the abyss between them continued to grow. Invisible to Eduardo's eyes.
But painfully clear to Elisa.