My dad’s favorite spot was the balcony. From there, he watched the city—buses flying past red lights, motorcycles weaving through traffic, life unfolding below. Across from it, the quiet green of Redenção, the only place he willingly left the house for.

A lawyer, a storyteller, a man who avoided photos like they could steal his soul. He lived in books, in long conversations, in the silence of that balcony.

Years later, after moving across the world, I found something unexpected—proof that maybe, just maybe, a piece of him was still here. Something I will hold onto forever.