1

  Greta knew her parents' caretaker's address in Torres by heart. She'd visited the man many times over the years, on unplanned weekend trips. The caretaker's wife made the best cheese bread she'd ever tasted in her life. She was also the one who maintained her family's house before each season and whenever requested.

  She rejected the idea of going there right away. The first reason was obvious: it would be the first place she'd be looked for. The second was deeper: she wanted distance from any connection to the past. She'd already drowned in it too many times. It was time to turn the page.

  She drove slowly through the city's central area, assessing the hotels. An establishment downtown would be perfect. The security of a busy area was the main advantage. As a bonus, she could do everything on foot and give herself a break from the driver's role. The rest would be welcome before the trip to Imbituba the next day.

  When she passed in front of the Farol Hotel, emotional memory spoke louder. It wasn't the word Farol itself, it was just that she'd passed by there many, many times on her bicycle. She remembered wishing she could stay there. Of course she didn't need to: her parents' house was a short walk away. Even so, she imagined the place was always full of exotic characters out of an Agatha Christie plot. There would be millionaires having drinks by the pool, suspicious chambermaids going back and forth through corridors covered by worn carpet, and, of course, a very kind little old lady keeping an eye on everyone.

  At that time of year, most tourists had already left. She managed to park right in front of the hotel. A little pile of sand nestled between the car tire and the sidewalk curb. Up close, the building was less showy than in memory. The paint wasn't new, revealing small moisture stains here and there.

  There was no worn carpet, but a ceramic floor with intricate patterns, reminiscent of crossword puzzles. There were many vacant rooms, and she informed the smiling receptionist that she preferred a room facing the back. She paid cash for the overnight stay, got her suitcase from the car, and informed the valet that the vehicle could be parked in the hotel garage. She wouldn't need it anymore for the rest of the night.

  The room was exactly what you'd expect from a two-star hotel: simple, but clean. A double bed occupied the center of the room, covered by a white bedspread with fringes giving it grandma's house vibes. The dark, antique wardrobe dominated one of the walls, with the slightly oxidized mirror reflecting the late afternoon light.

  In the corner, a small table with two woven straw chairs served as a work area or space for meals. A mini-fridge hummed discreetly under the window, the white retractable curtains open to circulate the salty air. A small television was mounted high on the wall.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  The floor was ceramic. On the cream-colored walls, two cheap reproductions of still life gave the environment a more welcoming air.

  It wasn't luxurious, but it offered the basics. Greta just wanted a clean bed, a shower with hot water, and, most importantly, a bed without posts to attach a chain to.

  She peeked through the window at the pool area. There were no mysterious millionaires there. To tell the truth, there was no one. Placing the suitcase on the bed, she looked for the clothes she'd bought earlier. She'd left home with only the clothes on her back. She'd thought about throwing away the clothes chosen by Daros: nothing about them came close to her style. However, they were comfortable. She'd take those to the cabin.

  Leaving a blouse and viscose pants at hand, she went to shower.

  2

  The afternoon light was beginning to dissolve when Greta handed in the key at reception, ready to leave.

  "Would you like a restaurant suggestion?" the receptionist asked, helpfully. "We have several excellent dining options in the area."

  "Thank you, but there is no need. I know the city like the back of my hand."

  "Perfectly, ma'am. There's a taxi stand right there on the corner. There are fewer rideshare cars around here at the end of summer," the employee explained, helpfully. "Or, if you prefer, I can ask the valet to get your car."

  "No need, but thank you. I prefer to walk." Greta opened a tired smile. "It's been a long day. Walking a bit will help me relax."

  She left out how much she needed to stretch her muscles after having her leg tied up. She figured it would be too much information.

  As soon as she reached the street, she knew she'd made the right choice. The temperature was perfect for walking, and the evening sun painted the sky in peaceful shades of orange marmalade.

  For a moment, she hesitated between going right or left. Memory failed. Was Marisk?o toward Praia Grande or Prainha? She consulted Google Maps on her phone. The kiosk was on Praia Grande, just five hundred meters from the hotel. Perfect.

  She chose to detour from the route and walk to the waterfront. When she reached the sand, she took off her low-heeled sandals. The sensation was immediate: a freedom that started in her bare feet and rose to her head.

  Greta walked without hurry, making stops from time to time. She had the impulse to climb a dune, just to run down afterward. Instead, with one foot, then the other, she drew patterns in the wet sand. The silence, broken only by the waves breaking on the sand, was an invitation to look inward. She accepted the proposal, diving into thoughts. There, alone with the ocean, her determination to start over was more solid than ever.

  A movement in the distance captured her attention. A black dot was moving at high speed in her direction. She narrowed her eyes, trying to identify what it was. At first, as ridiculous as the idea was, she thought it was a colt, but... no. It had fur too long to be a horse. When the figure approached, the pink tongue hanging out revealed the mystery: it was a huge, furry black dog, and its frenzied run was a delight to watch.

  A smile began to form at the animal's charm, but dissolved into alarm when she realized the inevitable collision. Physics lessons blinked in the memory vault. Who weighs more? The body in motion or the inert object? Either way, the impact couldn't be pleasant.