People were coming the other way.

​

Someone smiled. Not for Cinza. Not for anyone. Just smiled.

​

A woman hummed. To herself. For no reason.

​

An old man stopped, closed his eyes, lifted his face to the sun – as if he had all the time in the world.

​

They didn’t have anything to prove. To anyone. Not even to themselves.

​

Cinza hadn’t experienced that. Hadn’t experienced that in a long time.

​

When had Cinza last smiled like that? For no reason? When had they hummed?

​

Something was burning. Behind their eyes. Deep. Green and blue markings on wood and stone. Silent guideposts. A language without words.

​

The sea breathed along.

​

Here, whispered something. Not the wind. Not the waves. Something older. It begins here.

​

_

​

Cinza closed their eyes. And fell.

​

Fell through gray. Through silence. Through years.

​

Until the sand caught Cinza.

​

The first ray of sunlight broke through the fog on the beach of São Torpes as Cinza opened their eyes. Cinza lay in the sand – or was Cinza made of sand? Cinza couldn't feel the difference.

​

Their hand went up. Slowly. As if it belonged to someone else. Their fingers closed – but around what? Air? Sand? Cinza didn’t know. The hand didn't know.

​

Their body felt like a memory of something that had once been real but had long since faded. Gray was the sand. Gray was the sea. Gray was the sky. And Cinza themself was gray, a figure of fog and forgetting, neither permanent nor fleeting, something in between.

​

In their right hand – or was it the left? Cinza didn’t know anymore – was a glass bottle. Small, transparent, empty. Its opening was sealed with a cork. The cork was still breathing. The bottle was the only thing that had color in this gray world. It shimmered like a drop of water in the morning sun.

​

“What is it for?” whispered Cinza into the silence.

​

Only the sea answered – an endless whooshing that Cinza couldn’t really hear. It was as if there were cotton between the world and Cinza’s ears. Between the world and Cinza’s skin. Between the world and Cinza’s heart. I’m deaf. Deaf to everything.

​

When did this start?

​

It was like winter coming on. Not on a single day. Flake by flake. Until one morning everything is white and you realize that you don’t know when the autumn departed.

That's how it was. Day by day, a little thinner. Softer. Paler.

​

An image rose up.

​

Getting up. Showering. Getting dressed. Doing.

​

Every day. The same steps. The same walls.

​

One morning, Cinza stopped. In the middle of the hall.

For what?

​

The question hung in the room. Loudly. Alien.

​

Cinza waited for an answer.

​

None came.

​

The air, which once flowed like water, became thick as honey. Their chest, which once had been as wide as the sky, became tight like a fist. And at some point – when? – Cinza had stopped breathing. Not entirely, but almost. Only shallowly. Only upward. Like a bird that has forgotten that it can fly.

​

Then came the thought – softly, hardly perceptibly, as if from far away: Breathe.

​

Cinza tried to breathe. But how? Their chest didn’t want to rise. The air didn’t want to go in. It was as if Cinza had completely forgotten what breathing was. As if there were stones on their chest. A lot of stones. Years full of stones.

​

And then – 

​

An image rose up. From down below. From a time that Cinza had forgotten.

_

​

A child in the snow.

​

White. White everywhere. And silent. As silent as only snow can be.

​

The child lay on its back. Above it – light. A golden twinkling through the blanket of snow. So close. Maybe a hand’s breadth. But the body couldn’t move. The snow held it down. Like a fist. Like a thousand fists.

​

The child’s heart raced like the heart of a bird in a cage.

​

And then –

​

A voice. It came from inside. Or from everywhere. It sounded like the grandfather when he sat by the fire in the evening. Be quiet now. Very quiet.

​

The child was quiet.

​

Your breath is warm, warmer than the snow. Breathe. Just a little. Hardly more than a puff.

​

The child breathed. A tiny breath.

​

The warm breath rose up. Came down on the snow. And the snow – it cried. Drop by drop.

​

Good. Breath opens the Way.

​

The child breathed. And waited. Breathed. And waited.

​

At some point – was it after an hour? After three? – there was a crack in the white blanket. And light came through the crack. And air came through the light.

​

A deep breath.

​

It tasted like sky. Like life. Like: I'm still here.

​

And later – much later – the grandfather came stomping across the snowfield. He had been looking, looking for so long. And then he heard something. A small noise. Rhythmic. Tender.

​

Breath.

​

The child’s breath had called. And the grandfather had heard.

_

​

Cinza opened their eyes.

​

Sand, not snow. Warmth, not cold.

​

But the stones on their chest – they were still there.

​

Breathe, the thought came again, more persistent this time. Through the nose. Slowly. Just a short breath. Less than you think. Much less.

​

Cinza closed their eyes and tried it. A tiny breath through the nose. Smaller than Cinza would have thought possible – hardly more than a puff. The air flowed in – cool, salty, alive. Then Cinza held their breath. For three heartbeats. Then out, again through the nose, slowly like a whisper. In again. Hold. Out.

​

The stones were getting lighter. They were not gone, but they were lighter.

​

The world began to move. Very slowly, as if it were waking from a deep sleep.

​

And then – Cinza felt something.

​

Not the hand that reaches, something else, something bigger.

​

The wind. It came from the sea, as if someone had sent it. It caressed Cinza’s cheek. Gently, like the hand of a mother who's checking to see whether her child is still feverish.

​

The sun. It shone on Cinza’s forehead. Not hot, just there. Like a promise.

​

The sand. It snuggled up to Cinza’s back. Carried. Held. Like someone who says: I won’t let you fall.

​

The world touched Cinza, even before Cinza touched the world.

​

Something softened. Somewhere behind Cinza’s eyes.

​

The world is still there. It hasn’t forgotten me. It's still touching me. I had just stopped feeling it.

​

Cinza got up. Their legs felt strange, as if they belonged to someone else. Three steps – and Cinza stumbled. The sand gave way, offering no resistance. Cinza fell.

​

And for the first time since ... Since when? ... Cinza felt something.

​

Their hands lay in the sand. Warm. Grainy. Yielding. Each individual grain of sand pressed into their palms, and suddenly there was a feeling – a weak, tender feeling of touching. Cinza lifted their hand and let the sand run through their fingers. Slowly. Grain by grain. It was as if the world were really there for the first time.

​

Being touched. Touching. Both.

 

_

​

“You’re awake,” said a voice.

​

Cinza wheeled around. On a rock, not even ten meters away, sat a little girl. She was wearing a dress that looked like woven light – sometimes blue like the sea, sometimes green like algae, sometimes silver like froth, depending on how the sunlight fell on it. Her feet were bare and swinging over the edge of the rock. She was holding a conch in her hand; she was examining it as if it were the most valuable thing in the world.

​

“Who are you?” asked Cinza.

​

“Sina,” said the girl, without looking up from the conch. “And you're Cinza.”

​

“How do you know...?”

​

“I know a lot,” said Sina. She lay the conch carefully on the rock and jumped down. When she landed, she made no sound, as if she were made of air. “For example, I know that you're collecting tears.”

​

“Tears?” Cinza held up the glass bottle. “It's empty.”

​

“Right now,” said Sina. She came closer, barefoot across the sand, and her footsteps left no traces. Her eyes were dark and deep like the sea at night. “But you will fill it. Tear by tear. Twelve you will collect. And the thirteenth – waits in you.”

​

“With what? And why twelve?”

​

Sina smiled – a smile that seemed to be centuries old. “With that which you have lost. With that which the world has lost.” She pointed her head toward a large wooden sign on the beach. On it, in Portuguese and English: “Rota Vicentina – Trilho dos Pescadores – The Fishermen’s Trail.” Below the words was a map with blue and green markings. “The Way awaits. It is long – more than two hundred kilometers to Lagos. Thirteen stages. On each one you’ll find a tear.”

​

“But ... Tears? Why tears?”

​

Sina came very close. So close that Cinza could see her eyes – these deep, dark eyes that reflected the whole sea. “Because tears are holy,” she whispered. “Because tears are the proof that you’re alive. That you feel. That you're really here.” She laid her hand on Cinza’s cheek – a tender, warm gesture. “A person who can’t cry is no longer alive. You were gray, Cinza. Gray like ash. But now you will feel again. And when you feel, you will cry. And your tears will heal you and make you alive again.”

​

“But where does the Way lead?”

​

“To Lagos. To the End of the World.” Sina looked right at Cinza. “Or to the beginning.”

​

“The beginning of what?”

​

“You’ll see,” said Sina. “Or even better, you’ll feel. Today you’ll learn to touch the world. Tomorrow you’ll learn to keep your balance. You’ll discover something new each day. Step by step. Sense by sense. Tear by tear.” She lifted the conch up off the rock and pressed it into Cinza’s hand. “Feel it. Really feel it.”

​

The conch was rough and smooth at the same time – ribbed on the outside like a mountain, shimmering inside like mother of pearl. Cool from the morning dew. Heavy, as if it were holding the weight of the whole sea inside itself.

​

“The sense of touch,” whispered Sina, “is the oldest sense. It was there before the eyes. Before the ears. Before everything.” She touched Cinza’s cheek – a tender, warm gesture. “Those who do not touch are but fog. Those who touch become real.”

​

Then she was gone. Just like that. As if the wind had carried her away. Cinza stood alone on the beach, the conch in one hand, the bottle in the other. The breath – small and soft – in their chest. “Go,” Sina said. And so Cinza started out.