Chapter 07 – The Children Who Died, Stayed, and Wait for Peace

— If you want, I can go in alone. Or we can come back another time, — Michel murmured, his voice close to Cauã's ear, wrapped in a quiet concern.

But retreating was not an option. Not now.

— No… we need to attract as many spirits as possible. Give them the peace they deserve. You have to get them out of here, Michel. — The answer came trembling, yet firm, like someone walking across burning coals because they know something more important waits on the other side.

The scene before them was disturbing — nearly unbearable. The laments sounded like twisted lullabies, a chorus of pain from invisible mouths. Children crawled across the room like fragments of memory, clinging to the woman's dress as if seeking comfort — or perhaps justice. Fetuses floated around her like nameless specters, and the air seemed to boil with the intensity of the energy trapped inside.

And at the center of it all, the hostess — smiling, serene, offering a false gentleness that hurt more than it soothed.

— Is everything alright, dear? — she asked, her smile as static as her vacant gaze.

— It's just the morning sun, — Michel replied, dissimulating with the same softness one uses to protect someone they love from a painful truth.

They entered, finally, their steps measured, like those crossing a desecrated temple. Every inch of that house demanded a sacrifice. A gesture of courage.

The house was a suffocating reliquary of the past — and everything in it that had decayed.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, they were swallowed by a heavy atmosphere, crammed with objects that seemed to compete for space and attention. Each wall was lined with gold-framed paintings — some faded family portraits, others religious images and painted eyes that seemed to follow their every move. Porcelain angels, saints in niches, questionable trinkets, and thick rugs with faded Oriental patterns made the place feel like a forgotten museum — but without the dignity of memory.

Floral curtains hung like mourning veils, and dark wooden furniture overflowed with lace, doilies, and artificial flowers. Everything exuded an irritating, intoxicating scent — a sharp blend of stale mothballs, deep-rooted mildew, and sickly sweet perfume, as if trying to mask the true odor of what lingered there.

But it was impossible to disguise.

Spirits accumulated like dust in the corners, in cracks, in cluttered shelves. Some merely watched — silent, trembling. Others wandered in circles, mumbling broken memories. Invisible children ran through the halls, their disconnected laughter slicing through the silence with perverse irony.

And in one corner of the room, tucked between an embroidered sofa and a cracked glass cabinet, a dark stain pulsed. It wasn't a shadow — it was alive. A dense, black sludge that undulated as if it breathed. The energy emanating from it was stifling, oppressive. A spirit that had surpassed torment and now existed as pure poison: an obsessor.

Cauã could barely keep air in his lungs — each breath a silent effort under the weight of what floated through that house. Michel felt his stomach twist, not just from the acidic, cloying scent that clung to everything, but from the emotional disarray in the atmosphere — as if every object, every dusty piece of furniture, every tacky painting held tortured memories, echoes of stifled voices that had never found peace.

— Please, sit down, dears, — Lourdes's voice floated sweetly, almost too sweet — a seductive invitation wrapped in a thin layer of madness. — How about some tea? Chamomile or lemon balm to soothe the nerves?

Michel cut in, his voice firm, leaving no room for pleasantries. — We don't need any. We just came to talk.

But Cauã didn't take his eyes off the living shadow twisting in the dark corner of the room — a formless, pulsing stain that radiated suffocating energy, like a black, grieving heart. The obsessor seemed to feed on their presence, growing in silent fury.

Suddenly, translucent shapes began to form — small, pale bodies drifting closer, drawn to Michel like moths to a flame. They were lost children, fragile specters, and Cauã felt the urgent need to free them from that place, where peace had never dared to land.

— It's about my birth, — Michel said, his voice heavy with a weight he could no longer hide.

Lourdes smiled — a strange smile that never reached her eyes, which gleamed with a distant light. — Ah, yes, I remember. Your uncle was always so beloved… and your birth… — she paused, almost in a trance — was always expected. The golden child. A promise that spanned generations.

Michel arched an eyebrow, suspicious. — Expected? After years working in pediatrics, I never thought a nurse would remember one particular birth.

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a near-prophetic whisper, like a dark secret:— Didn't your uncle tell you? You're more than an ordinary boy, Michel. A being destined to transform those willing to see the truth behind the veil. I was there — and I had the privilege of bringing into the world a light so deep, so spiritual, that it still echoes through the invisible corridors.

And as she spoke those words, the air thickened further. The acrid scent of something dead and burned intensified, and the obsessor expanded its shadow — a silent omen that not all light is born without carrying a trace of darkness.

Lourdes's voice echoed through the house like an ancient chant, and for a moment, Michel felt the air around him grow even heavier. The woman smiled with reverence, her eyes glistening with devotion, as if she truly believed every word she spoke. But there was something wrong in that enthusiasm. Something that slipped past immediate understanding.

Cauã remained silent, his eyes fixed on the black mass writhing in the corner of the room — as though every word Lourdes spoke only fed the thing. The obsessor pulsed with the conversation, stretching in slow waves, pleased by the memory of some unresolved past. The children — those fragile, lost spirits — began to gather around Michel, their empty eyes locked on him, desperate for a promise that would never come.

The pulsating, obsessive shadow crept forward, seeping into the walls like a viscous stain, crawling silently — like a black worm approaching the two of them with dark, inescapable intent. Cauã squeezed Michel's hand tightly, anchoring himself in that human contact, while the lawyer found himself surrounded by a spectral legion: translucent figures, wandering spirits floating around him like a silent chorus of sorrow — living echoes of lives cut short, premature deaths, and perhaps even orchestrated ones, their pain lingering in the air like a heavy, suffocating fog.

— "Enlightened?" — Michel repeated, his voice tense. — I was nearly killed this week by a girl possessed by a cult preaching "rebirth," and now you're telling me my birth was "expected"? What kind of… preparation is that supposed to be?

Lourdes simply smiled.

— There are many forces, my dear. Some good. Others… not so much. But you… you have a rare aura. That's why so many are drawn to you — the living and the dead alike. You attract. Like a lighthouse in a moonless night. And sometimes… darkness sees the light too.

Cauã shivered.

— Michel, we have to go. — Cauã looked at him urgently.

Michel nodded almost imperceptibly, his mind spiraling. There was something greater here. Something rooted not just in his birth, but in everything hidden since then. And Lourdes, with her sweet smile and house infested with souls, was not merely a witness. She was part of the veil concealing the truth.

Michel wanted to continue—question, demand more answers—but the urgency in Cauã's voice left no room for insistence. In a sudden movement, he grabbed him by the waist, pulling their bodies close with determination.

— We'd better go now. Thank you for the clarity.

Before they could cross the door, a wrinkled hand gripped Michel's arm—much firmer than a woman of that age should have.

— You had a child, didn't you? You must pass it on. It is through your seed that we will all flourish. You must carry this unique calling to your descendants… the seed is necessary. — Her voice trembled, almost hypnotic, as the dark, muddy shadow inched forward, crawling, ready to swallow everything around.

— No, I never… — Michel frowned, suffocating, the words feeling like a prison his uncle might have spoken. — Let go of me!

He ripped his arm away and ran toward Cauã's motorcycle parked across the street, still followed by a small spectral legion orbiting his body—shadows clinging like a silent cloak.

The weight of the world seemed compressed onto Cauã's shoulders—and now it dissipated little by little under Michel's gentle touch, his steady, comforting presence. The pressure in his ears dulled the city's chaos. The familiar scent of the neighborhood softened the harsh urban odors still lingering in his nostrils. And the human warmth—constant, firm—brought him back.

— Take a deep breath. I'm here with you. — Michel's low voice surrounded him with care, unhurried, as though he knew exactly what to do. And he did. Since he had suspected Cauã's neurodivergence, he'd prepared, sought understanding—not to label, but to support. And now, with serenity and tact, he acted. Firm hands on ears, body close, silence as comfort.

Inside, Lourdes had recoiled, immersed in a world as distorted as her surroundings. Nothing more would be said—at least for now.

Cauã breathed slowly, sheltering in the space Michel offered. He exhaled once, twice, three times… until things began to fit again. His eyes opened slowly, still carrying the haze of exhaustion, and met Michel's—attentive gaze, calm and resolute face. But what hit him most was the dark cloak of spirits enveloping the lawyer, as if they either wanted to devour him or seek refuge in him.

— We need a place with nature, — he finally said, his voice low, still cautious. — Luckily, there's that forest nearby. Let's walk there. And… thank you. — He looked away, sincerity clear.

Michel simply smiled—no probing questions. Like someone who understands that sometimes, silence is the greatest care.

Rodrigues Alves Forest stretched before them like an ancient refuge, almost untouched by time—a living fragment of the Amazon preserved in the pulsating heart of Belém. They passed through the entrance after paying a modest fee, stepping onto damp earthen paths flanked by thick roots and century-old trunks. The air there felt different: denser, cooler, saturated with the scent of wet leaves, moss, and life.

Michel and Cauã walked in silence, their steps softened by a blanket of dry leaves. On a Friday afternoon, there were few people—just a handful of staff attending to maintenance. Above them, treetops formed a green vault, filtering sunlight into golden beams that danced through the shadows. Toucans watched from high branches, and a group of capuchin monkeys peered curiously at the couple entering that ancestral sanctuary.

Cauã chose one of the quieter trails, surrounded by maçarandubas and quariquaras whose roots emerged like sacred serpents. There, far from visitors, the sounds of the city, and concrete, nature still spoke in an ancient tongue—one only spirits and sensitives could understand.

The ground was littered with dry leaves and small vines tangled by chance. There was a scent of dew and earth, a whispering breeze weaving through the branches as if the forest itself breathed alongside them. Michel remained alert: the spirits orbiting him seemed more restless than ever, and the dark obsessor—the muddy leftover from Lourdes—still slithered among them, trying to take root there as well.

Cauã knelt awkwardly, placing coarse salt around a little clearing and setting some dried herbs mixed with charcoal in a small ceramic pot. With a short match, he lit it, and smoke began to rise—thick, carrying the fragrance of burned leaves: white cedar, lavender, rue.

— Here, no one can reach you, — he murmured to Michel, extending his hand.

The forest seemed to hold its breath. Time slowed amid those trunks—like the forest itself silently observed the ritual about to unfold. There, on that natural altar, in the sacred quiet of century-old trees, Michel and Cauã were about to face something beyond the visible.

And only nature, still ancient and alive, could protect them now.

Cauã gently took the smudge pot from his backpack, treating it like a sacred object. His fingers, steady yet trembling from sensory overload, lit the dried herbs with precision. Smoke began to spiral upward, snaking through the dense forest air. An earthy, ancestral aroma spread—rue, lavender, white copal—cleansing the invisible traces of pain trailing Michel like a shadow.

He sat on the damp earth, legs crossed reverently, eyes half-closed in concentration. His voice, low and melodic, began a prayer in an almost whispered tone. The words seemed to belong to another world, echoing through leaves and roots like an ancient chant meant only for departed souls.

— Come, sit here. — he said, gesturing softly for Michel to take a seat in front of him.

Michel obeyed without hesitation. As soon as they were seated face to face, something in the air began to shift. The presences that had followed them from Lourdes's house—the children, visions, hesitant globes of light—started to manifest more clearly. Small floating figures approached timidly, as if recognizing Cauã as a passage, and Michel as the flame drawing them in.

The children laughed softly, bidding farewell in spirals of light. Some hovered like shimmering bubbles, others as faint, tearful blurs. But one by one, they passed through the forest mist and disappeared, leaving behind only a trace of warmth and relief. It was like watching a procession of anguish being embraced by the forest.

Cauã remained steadfast, guiding each spirit with care. But he knew—the obsessor was still there, thick and dark, lurking at the edge of the ritual like a hungry animal. He didn't dare invoke it. Not yet.

— She won't help you discover why your mother died, — he said in a loaded voice. — Lourdes was in this with your uncle. They saw your birth as a milestone... an omen. You weren't just a baby to them. You were a kind of promise.

He lowered his gaze, his body bending slightly as though bearing an invisible burden.

— That woman... she carries the deaths of many. Children, fetuses, newborns. I lost count of how many I felt trapped inside her. And worse—she is proud of it. As if she'd fulfilled some spiritual calling in the world. But that... — he took a deep breath, reconnecting with the forest's sounds — that was just pain. Accumulated pain.

He paused for a moment, closing his eyes. The forest seemed to envelop them: cicadas buzzed, twigs cracked under the weight of moisture and history. And Cauã, exhausted, wanted only one thing: to be held by the sacredness of nature. Like a child seeking its mother's embrace.

He asked for nothing. But deep down, he longed for a hug. To shield him from everything.

And it came swiftly.

Michel wrapped him in a firm, almost desperate embrace, as if trying to anchor the other—and himself. His body trembled slightly, and Cauã felt that urgent, chaotic warmth coming from the lawyer's overburdened mind. The impact of the visit, the spirits, the revelation—everything felt like a throbbing open wound.

How many children had died? For what purpose? Those child souls wandering, trapped... why?

Michel couldn't accept that someone could do that intentionally. Questions raced through his mind—what was his uncle's role? What did Lourdes mean by "golden boy"? Why did so many deaths surround his birth?

And in the midst of all that chaos, there was only one constant: Cauã.

He was the only one who seemed to understand. The only one who could see, feel, and carry part of that burden without turning away. And in that moment, Michel realized he had no one else. Just the doctor.

And perhaps that alone was enough to keep him from losing his mind.

They went straight to Michel's apartment, still weighted by the ritual's burden and the forest's dust clinging to their clothes and skin. But as they turned the corner and saw the building entrance, Michel's stomach twisted. Omar was there, leaning against the hood of a luxury car, as if he belonged in that scene—tailored suit, perfectly styled blond hair, precisely trimmed beard. A living portrait of the elite, untouched by scarcity.

He watched them with probing eyes, lingering a moment too long on Cauã—both still mud-streaked, disheveled from the forest and invisible weight. Omar's raised eyebrow was almost ancestral, as if saying, "This isn't your world."

Cauã thought about retreating, used to that kind of gaze. But before he could step back, he felt Michel's grip on his arm, as though saying, Stay. This is your place too.

— This isn't a good time, Omar. — Michel spoke directly, without affectation. — Not sure if you noticed, but we're covered in dirt, tired, and we need a shower and some rest. How about we talk this weekend?

Omar's polished elegance remained intact, but a crease of discomfort formed on his forehead. He got the message—and the tone.

— I spoke with Alessandro, — he said, his voice venomously smooth as he savored the name. — And honestly… you've changed.

Michel held his gaze. He had changed—and he intended to stay that way.

— I don't need your worries, Omar. I believe I'm a responsible adult, in control of myself, aren't I? — Michel offered a soft, polite smile—more out of respect for years of friendship than warmth.

Omar remained impassive for a moment, adjusting his suit sleeve with measured precision.

— Your uncle contacted me too, — he said, a hint of veiled reproach in his tone. — When were you planning to tell me about the assassination attempt? You waiting to die first? — his tone was calm, but dense with what lay beneath. — You've been wandering around the city as if nothing happened. Who's going to protect you? Him?

Omar's gaze dropped to Cauã like a silent blade. Michel breathed deeply.

— I already said I don't want to discuss this here, in front of the building. — Fatigue began to show in his voice—firmer, wearier. — And who gave you permission to contact my uncle?

Cauã remained silent, shoulders tense, feeling the judgment dripping like poison from the other man's polished words. Michel turned to him.

— Come on, Cauã.

Passaram por Omar sem dizer mais nada, mas a tensão se apoderava de seus corpos — uma tensão que não se dissiparia tão cedo. Ainda de braços cruzados, Omar os seguiu com o olhar, demorando-se demais no rosto do médico. Avaliando. Calculando. Como alguém que encara uma peça fora do lugar em um tabuleiro de xadrez, tentando discernir se era uma ameaça ou uma distração.

Quando desapareceram de vista, Omar enfiou a mão no bolso e tirou o celular. Sua voz era baixa, fria e eficiente.

— Quero tudo o que você puder descobrir sobre um homem chamado Cauã. Médico. Tem por volta de trinta anos. Descubra quem ele é — e o que ele quer com Michel.

E ele desligou sem esperar resposta.