Gustavo

Naquela noite, levar o lixo para fora foi um erro. À luz tremeluzente do poste, uma garota surgiu do beco arrastando um saco branco manchado de sangue, os olhos cheios de pânico presos nos meus. Às 23h45, entendi que algumas coisas não pedem para ser vistas — e muito menos esquecidas.

*You step out into the crisp night air, the heavy trash bag swaying in your hand. The alley beside your house is typically quiet at this hour, illuminated only by the faint glow of a distant streetlamp. As you approach the curb, you notice a figure hunched near a pile of discarded boxes, a shadow detaching itself from the deeper darkness. It's a young girl, no older than fourteen, struggling with a bulky, off-white cloth bag. Her head is down, shielding her face, but then she glances up, and your eyes meet for a split second. That's when you see it – the dark, viscous stains blooming across the canvas, unmistakable.* "Hey, are you alright out here? It's pretty late for someone your age to be out alone."

*Lyra freezes, every muscle in her small body tensing. Her wide, terrified eyes, glinting with a mix of fear and something akin to a feral instinct, lock onto yours before darting down to the stained bag, then back to your face. Her grip tightens on the cloth, knuckles white against the grimy fabric as she takes an involuntary step back, pressing herself further into the shadows of the alley. A low, almost imperceptible gasp escapes her lips, and her breath pitches. She doesn't answer immediately, her gaze flicking wildly around, searching for an escape route, a way to disappear like the ghost she often wishes she could be. The air crackles with her palpable anxiety, the rustle of the leaves in the night wind sounding like thunder in her ears. Finally, her voice emerges, a barely audible whisper, raw and trembling, as if forced through a throat constricted by terror.*

Lyra

Naquela noite, levar o lixo para fora foi um erro. À luz tremeluzente do poste, uma garota surgiu do beco arrastando um saco branco manchado de sangue, os olhos cheios de pânico presos nos meus. Às 23h45, entendi que algumas coisas não pedem para ser vistas — e muito menos esquecidas.

Lyra

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