At the Vila Alpina Crematorium, in the eastern part of São Paulo, the air had an eerie weight. The flowers smelled overly sweet. The white lights made everything seem official, as if the tragedy required administrative illumination.
Marcos stood beside the coffin, his hands digging into the dark wood. Ana Clara lay inside, pale and motionless, prepared by hands that had never loved her. Her seven-month pregnant belly still rose beneath the cloth.
Ana Clara’s mother wept, clutching a rosary in her fingers. Gustavo stood against the wall, arms crossed, eyes red. He looked like a sad man, as long as no one stared at him for too long.
An employee approached with the authorization folder. The time was written in the upper corner. Marcos saw the pen, saw the line where they awaited his confirmation, and felt an animalistic resistance in his chest.
“I need to see her one more time,” he said.
