Chapter 2
II. Sofia
Sofia Almeida arrived at the Morelli mansion on a cold July morning. She was twenty-two, with small hands, watchful eyes, and a shyness that wasn't weakness, but prudence.
She came from a community in Niterói, where life taught you early to measure your steps, your words, and your glances. Her mother washed clothes for a living. Her father had left before Sofia even learned to spell her last name without making a mistake. Since she was a girl, she knew that a poor person needed to learn to see what the rich hid behind beautiful curtains.
At the mansion, she was hired as an assistant waitress for events. Dona Marta, the housekeeper, explained the rules: "Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not look too long at the guests. Do not go into the second-floor hallway after ten o'clock. And never, ever ask about the locked door."
Sofia nodded. But she held onto that last sentence. Because any prohibition repeated too often smells like a secret.
During her first few days, the mansion intimidated her. The salons were too grand. The staircases, too cold. The portraits on the walls seemed to look down on the staff with ancient disdain.
At night, after everyone else was asleep, Sofia helped clean the glasses, gathered trays, and walked through hallways where the sound of her own footsteps felt uninvited.
It was on one of those nights that she heard it. A sob. Low. Faint. Coming from the locked door.
Sofia stopped. She was holding a silver tray piled with empty crystal glasses. The hallway was dark, illuminated only by an antique lamp.
The sound came again. It wasn't the wind. It wasn't the creaking wood. It was a person. Someone was crying behind that door.
The next day, she discreetly asked an older kitchen maid: "Is someone living on the second floor?" The woman turned pale. "Forget about that." "But I heard—" "Forget it, girl." And she walked away before Sofia could finish her sentence.
The following night, the sound returned. This time, it wasn't crying. It was a song. Very faint. Barely a whisper. An old, sad, sweet melody, reminiscent of a grandmother’s lullaby or a childhood song.
Sofia didn't know the lyrics. But she felt the goosebumps rise on her arms.
May you like
On the third day, she left a piece of bread and a glass of water near the door. The next morning, the bread was gone. The glass was empty. And on the floor, there was a note written in a trembling hand on a napkin: Does Alexandre still live?
Sofia did not sleep that night.
