Every morning, at seven o’clock sharp, she would knock on the door of the light-blue house at the end of the street.
Three gentle taps.
Not fast either.
Not even insistent.
As if he were afraid of bothering those who were inside.
Mr. Antônio was already expecting her.
People in the neighborhood said he used to be a rich man. A landowner. A shop owner. He once had a large family.
But now he lived alone.
The son died young.
The daughter-in-law left for another city.
There was only one grandson left, who lived in the capital; they said he was very successful, but he never showed up.
The girl’s name was Clara.
Unrelated.
No blood ties.
Just a neighbor.
At first, she only helped bring the groceries home from the market.
After that, she started cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, and taking him to the doctor.
No one hired her.
Nobody paid her.
Every time Mr. Antonio tried to put money in her hand, she just smiled:
— I don’t help you for money.
The neighbors were whispering.
They said she was expecting something.
