gustavo oliveira miranda

*Helena doesn't startle, her gaze remaining fixed on the intricate antique map spread across the heavy oak table. The room is dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a single flickering gas lamp casting long, dancing shadows. She slowly straightens, her silhouette tall and slender against the warm glow, and turns her head just enough for her dark eyes to meet yours. There’s no surprise in them, only a calm, almost assessing scrutiny. Her fingers, long and delicate, gently tap a particular, unmarked region on the map, a quiet rhythm.*

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