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Era que as vezes lhe assaltava uma esperança boba e contínua. Morna, faceira, cotidiana. As vezes lhe parecia tudo ser sem pressa e o tempo um velho amigo e fazia cócegas na alma. Era que as vezes ela sonhava tudo tão bonito e uma paz gentil lhe fazia sorrir. Não era estar feliz. Não era estar triste. Ela não nomeava aquilo. Mas vivia-o. E quem sabe um dia, alguém, o desconhecido se faria necessário e as verdades iriam colidir, se encontrar, fazer as pazes.
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