Holy House, Belém — North Wing, 11:42 p.m.
The corridor seemed swallowed by time itself.
The walls were stained with soot, as if the fire had licked every corner before being forcibly contained. A warm smell of old smoke still floated in the air, mixed with the sweet and rotten odor of mold, ether, and something he didn't want to name.
Cauã stopped at the entrance of the deactivated wing. He took a deep breath — three seconds, four, seven — as he had learned to do when the outside world was too loud.
His jaw clenched as he tried to ignore the flickering light on the ceiling or the echo of his own racing heart.
"It's not fear. It's just too much information."
He repeated to himself like a mantra.
He unzipped his backpack with almost surgical precision. Took out a flashlight and an old recorder. Pressed the red button.
— North Wing. Holy House of Mercy. Early morning of the sixteenth... Fire reported three months ago. Rumor: woman crying every night, even with no patients admitted here. Possible case of residual echo or active presence. To be confirmed by direct observation.
He stepped over the cracked floor, avoiding pieces of plaster.
On the other side of the corridor, a wheelchair moved by itself with a dry creak.
Cauã stopped. Did not run. Did not blink. He only slightly turned his head to the side, trying to listen better. Sometimes sounds came clearer from the left.
— Is that the wind? — he murmured. But his voice held no certainty.
Further ahead, near the old pediatric wing, the shadows seemed denser.
Then he heard it.
A cry.
Low, muffled... like someone trying to hold the pain inside their throat.
And a woman's voice, hoarse, tired:
— Where's my baby, my Jesus...? Where's my little one...?
The recorder hissed. The flashlight faltered for a second.
— Who's there? — Cauã shouted, louder than he wanted. His voice came out high-pitched, trembling. — If there's someone there, speak!
Silence.
Then footsteps. Not his own. Wet. Unsteady.
He took two steps back, until a shadow slid through the half-open door of the old room 302. Something... feminine. In a nightgown. Hair tied in a loose bun. Shoulders bent. Bare feet.
She stopped. And looked at him.
— Did you see my boy, doctor? He was here... he was here with a fever...
Cauã fell silent, noticing the pale woman, her body marked with burn scars. He only stared, with deep eyes, too wide open. And she vanished. As if erased from the world.
He pressed the recorder tightly.
— Case confirmed. Intelligent manifestation. Verbal response. Woman searching for a child. Identify infant death history after the fire.
He was used to seeing, hearing, feeling — since early on, the boundaries between worlds were never clear to him.
The legacy of his paternal grandmother ran through his veins like an ancient, silent river. An indigenous woman, a deep-souled midwife, a potter with steady hands and eyes that pierced the darkness. She saw visions as one sees rain before the clouds.
His father used to say, never smiling too much: "The spirits gave you what was hers. You are the continuation."
And his mother, with quiet pride in her chest, called him "bridge."
Cauã learned to walk that narrow line between life and death without ever losing balance.
He knew he saw more than most. And over time, he got used to using that gift as a tool — or a crooked compass — to help those living on the margins, where the supernatural was still part of daily life.
He had always been proactive. Restless. He wanted to understand the occult, yes. But above all, he wanted to understand himself.
In recent weeks, he had been chasing a constant whisper: a woman crying every night in the abandoned wing of the Holy House. The reports matched. The crying. The emptiness. The cold that came from nowhere.
He thought he would come back the next day, better prepared, with another strategy. But then he heard it.
A dry snap, like the bones of someone moving in the dark.
The corridor was dirty with soot. The walls still carried the bitter smell of the fire — a mixture of burnt material, old dust, and something metallic and dense, like aged blood.
Cauã gripped the flashlight, the beam flickering as if afraid to illuminate too much.
His own footsteps echoed as if something else was following him.
Maybe it was her. The woman of the crying.
Maybe now he could try something more direct. There was no more fear. Just a dull feeling that something was preparing.
That's when the figure crossed the corridor. Too fast.
He twisted his wrist and aimed the flashlight. The light cut through the darkness, revealing the inside of a room.
Partially melted candles formed a crooked circle. Burnt papers lay scattered among dark stains. Files piled up as if hastily ripped from already dead drawers.
Then, a voice:
— Help, damn it...
It wasn't a ghostly lament. It was human.
Alive.
And in panic.
Cauã ran, senses on high alert. His mind processed everything in blocks: smell of fresh blood, irregular movement, physical presence.
And there was the scene:
A man fallen, wearing an expensive jacket now dirty and torn, his hand bloody. His face pale with pain, eyes wide trying to find explanation in the chaos.
In front of him, a thin woman, too tall, dressed in dark clothes and barefoot. The dagger in her hand seemed part of her body, as if born with her.
The blade shone, stained with something more than blood.
— You're going to die today.
The voice came low, loaded with coldness, like a sharp warning hanging in the air.
Cauã was used to facing wandering shadows, visions appearing out of nowhere, spirits trapped between worlds. But dealing with murder? With definitive death, on the earthly plane, was something else — a weight he could not simply ignore.
Without hesitation, he advanced across the room toward the woman.
She noticed the movement; the look of surprise was quick. On impulse, she pushed Cauã hard to the ground. The impact echoed hollowly in the muffled silence of the place.
— S-shit.
Before he could react, she ran to the window. The glass cracked, shattering into shards that fell to the floor with a sharp clink.
— Hey! — Cauã shouted, the urge to chase her almost making him get up immediately.
But a groan from the floor froze him in place.
He let out a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of the night dragging along with him.
— Damn... what a complicated night.
He slowly turned to the man trying to sit up. The suit, now stained and wrinkled, contrasted with the calm face despite the visible pain in the injured hand.
His slightly tousled hair didn't hide the firm and austere expression. Handsome, Cauã thought, although that kind of beauty seemed out of place in that abandoned, burned wing.
But what really caught attention was the aura around him — a kind of invisible field that seemed to attract everything that didn't belong to this world, whether shadows or lights.
— Thank you for helping me. I thought I was going to die at the hands of that crazy woman! — said the man, still breathing heavily.
He must have been about thirty-five, wearing an expensive jacket stained with blood and soot, but still maintaining an unshakable elegance. Brown hair, slightly messy, and eyes so light blue they reminded one of clear-water streams.
He was tall, sturdy, a presence hard to ignore.
Cauã observed him for a few seconds, eyes half-closed, analyzing everything. But he quickly looked away and shook his hands in the air, as if shooing invisible mosquitoes.
— Shoo. Go away. — he murmured, almost impatient, as the shapes and presences around them began to disperse, slowly dissolving into the dense air of the room.
He used his own spiritual energy to restore balance — a silent but exhausting task.
— What the hell was that? — he asked bluntly. — You invaded the hospital too and got attacked?
The man raised an eyebrow, lifting his chin with an almost offended air.
— Invaded is a strong word. I would say... I entered out of necessity. I was looking for some files. — He paused, his eyes studying Cauã more closely. — Apparently, you can sense them.
Cauã was the complete opposite of that man in the suit. He carried in his body the living memory of his father's ancestry: the skin a brown-earth tone, the indigenous features firmly marked on his serene face, as if time had carefully shaped him. His straight, jet-black hair was shaved on the sides, and a small ornament on his ear — discreet but meaningful — evoked the roots of his culture, the invisible link with those who came before.
He dressed simply and practically: a worn long-sleeved shirt; sturdy jeans; thick-soled boots, ready for any terrain — from the mud of the streams to the ruins of a hospital swallowed by oblivion.
Shorter than the stranger before him, and visibly older, he still carried a youthful air. A silent vitality that seemed to come from within, not from appearance — like someone who had faced much and learned to carry on, even while bearing the invisible on his shoulders.
— Not only do I sense them. Sometimes I see more than I'd like. — he replied dryly. — It's horrible when you're brushing your teeth, you lower your head, and bam! There's a vision standing right behind you, like it's the most normal thing in the world.
As he spoke, he stepped closer. Gently but firmly took the man's injured hand, examining the cut with clinical eyes.
— Can you move your fingers?
The man looked at him with some surprise at the sudden intimacy, but obeyed.
— Yes.
— Good. You didn't hit any nerves. You'll need stitches — Cauã noted, returning to the pragmatic tone of someone used to wounds, spiritual or not. — Do you know why you were attacked?
— Not exactly. Like I said, I came looking for old files, medical records from decades ago. This wing is where they kept everything. But then... I heard a woman singing. An old, sad song. And when you hear someone singing in the dark...
— You run. — Cauã interrupted, frowning. — Anyone with a shred of common sense.
— Yes, but... — he laughed awkwardly — I'm used to these things surrounding me. I've never seen anything, just felt. So I thought it was a living person. And look... it kind of was, right? Only with a dagger in hand. That wasn't in my plans.
Cauã narrowed his eyes, analyzing more than the words. That man carried something strange — not just the aura that attracted spirits, but an absence of fear very much like his own.
And that, for someone who deals with the dead, was always a warning sign.
— And you? — the stranger asked, breaking the silence with a disconcerting naturalness. — Ah... sorry. My name is Michel.
— Cauã. — he answered in a brief sigh, as if tired of repeating that name among the living and the dead.
His eyes swept the room once more before continuing:
— I heard rumors that in this wing, a mother cries for the son she lost. At night, always at night. I thought it was just another story to scare the staff... but since then, some children died. Strange cases. Silent ones. The moans began to coincide with those deaths. So I came to see with my own eyes.
He paused shortly, the words heavy on his tongue.
— And yes. It's true. Not always. We have to investigate carefully... But now that I've confirmed it, I'll have to come back here.
Michel hesitated, then let out a brief, awkward, almost cynical laugh.
— I didn't manage to get the documents... And honestly, I'm not keen on coming back alone. — He looked at Cauã with a difficult-to-read gleam in his eyes. — What do you think about working together on this? It would be good to have the company of someone who... understands.
The silence that followed was not of surprise, but of remembrance.
Cauã looked away, his eyes fixed on some lost point on the charred wall. He hadn't worked with anyone since Kaike disappeared.
Kaike was more than an investigation partner — he was his vanguard, his arms, his courage when his own failed. He was the one who taught Cauã to fight, to defend himself, not to back down even when the presences whispered his name from the other side of the dark. The two were inseparable.
And then, without warning, Kaike disappeared. Belém swallowed him like it swallows the forgotten — leaving no traces, no farewells.
That was the real reason Cauã requested a transfer to the capital. To look for him. To understand. Or at least face what was left.
Kaike had the gift of dreams — he dreamed of what was to come, of what could be — but he didn't have the gift of staying. And one day, Kaike felt death approaching. Many deaths at once. Overwhelming and merciless. It came in the form of illness, at the end of 2019.
Cauã turned his gaze toward Michel, already preparing the curt "no" he usually used to fend off persistent people. But the word died in his throat.
There was something about that man. Not just the way he attracted spirits — as if he were a beacon for those wandering between worlds — but the strange feeling that he could make his work easier. Often, ghosts would escape, vanish in the veil between the living and the dead, demanding rituals, offerings, and patience to bring them back. But with Michel... maybe none of that was necessary. He himself was the ritual.
— Okay. — he finally said, laconic.
Michel smiled, even with the cut throbbing in his hand. The smile had a hint of irony, but it was not unpleasant.
— Let's take care of that — Cauã continued, indicating the wound with a nod. — Better to go to an urgent care center.
— I can handle it when I get home. — Michel replied quickly, without even pretending to be convinced. He didn't seem like the type to trust hospitals — and considering where they were, it was hard to blame him.
Cauã sighed, already seeing that insisting would be useless.
— Leave it to me, then. I'm a doctor. But I'll need a clean place. I don't want my bait to die of infection. — he said, in a practical, almost dry tone, but with a slight touch of sarcasm.
Michel blinked, surprised.
— Bait?
— Yeah. You attract everything that crawls from the other side. It would be foolish to waste that.
The lawyer chuckled softly, still massaging his fingers with the good hand.
— You know, that's the first time someone called me useful in that way.
Cauã didn't answer. He just headed toward the exit, waiting for the other to follow. The corridor ahead still exhaled old smoke, dried blood, and echoes of what never rested. But, for the first time in days, he didn't feel completely alone in there.
Cauã turned the motorcycle key, the engine's roar breaking the heavy silence of the empty courtyard. The model was new, bought only a few months earlier with effort, and still shone even under the dim light of the grimy street lamps. Leaning on the handlebar, he gave Michel a sidelong glance, assessing if the man in the expensive suit would have the courage — or enough dignity — to get on the back.
He didn't seem like it.
The suit was still wrinkled and stained, but clearly tailored. And the sports car parked on the side sidewalk made it clear Michel wasn't the kind of guy who ventured around on motorcycles.
— What exactly do you do? — Cauã asked, more out of curiosity than necessity. There was something about Michel's manner that screamed "corporate," but the whole situation... didn't add up.
Michel pulled a card from his inner pocket, as if sealing a deal.
— Criminal lawyer. Office in Umarizal.
Cauã took the card with an arched eyebrow. He read it silently for a second before muttering:
— Ah. That makes sense... new car, sharp suit, smell of expensive cologne. What doesn't make sense is someone like that climbing a hospital wall in the middle of the night.
Michel gave a short, sarcastic laugh, his blue eyes gleaming in the dark.
— Doctors don't usually hunt ghosts for fun either. Don't you have a shift to work?
Cauã sighed, too tired and lacking patience to argue.
— Checkmate. — he muttered, putting on his helmet. — You go ahead, I'll follow.
Michel nodded, already walking toward his car. Watching him walk away, Cauã had the strange feeling that the night was far from over. And, for some reason he preferred not to name, he didn't think that was as bad as it should be.
The motorcycle cut through the humid Belém dawn, the headlight casting trembling shadows on the peeling walls of the sleeping city. The sky, heavy and low, threatened rain but held back in a muffled silence, as if the night was holding its breath along with Cauã.
The narrow streets of the old downtown seemed emptier than usual — an absence that wasn't exactly comforting. Some lit windows of twenty-four-hour snack bars cast a yellowish light on the wet cobblestones, creating distorted reflections that flickered like spirits with watchful eyes. The smell of mururé and rust, mixed with the faint scent of mangoes from the few flowering trees, created a bittersweet, ghostly perfume.
They passed Praça Batista Campos, dark and silent. The shadows of the century-old mango trees danced in the wind like arms raised in lament. Cauã kept his eyes sharp, his body upright on the bike, as if the midnight darkness could at any moment open and spit something from another world.
When they finally entered the Doca, the scene changed. The street lamps' lights multiplied on the still canal water, forming golden and false trails. Michel parked in front of a modern glass building, standing out from the surrounding architecture like a mirror suspended in an old city.
Cauã turned off the engine and slowly removed his helmet. He looked at the building with suspicion — too tall, too clean. But he felt... something. A subtle vibration, as if the structure itself repelled what was profane and, at the same time, attracted it.
— This is it. — Michel said, already waiting at the building's entrance, a cautious expression on his face.
Cauã nodded, but before entering, he cast one last glance at the canal, where a figure, perhaps just a drunken fisherman or... something older, seemed to watch him from the opposite bank.
In this city, even the water kept eyes.
As soon as the door opened, Cauã felt it. A shiver ran down his spine like a cold whisper. The air inside the apartment wasn't just cold because of the central air conditioning — it was dense. Saturated. As if every molecule carried echoes of ancient voices, remnants of footsteps that no longer belonged to anyone.
The apartment was spacious, modern, decorated with designer furniture and sober tones — lots of black, gray, and dark wood. There were minimalist paintings on the walls and a bookshelf full of legal books, covered and organized with precision. But the visual harmony wasn't enough to hide the invisible chaos that had accumulated inside.
Cauã saw. Not because he wanted to — but because he always saw.
Shadows. Many.
Still apparitions in the corners, standing as if waiting for something, or someone. Some with human shapes, blurred like reflections on dirty glass. Others just thick faceless shadows, seeming to drip down the walls like oil. One of them — a woman in a dingy white dress, hair stuck to her face — was crouched in the corner of the dining room, murmuring inaudible things to the floor.
In the kitchen, a tall figure hung from the ceiling like a silent animal, upside down. It watched Cauã but didn't move.
On the balcony, a man missing half his face contemplated the city, standing beside a pot of dried basil.
The apartment seemed like a refuge. A nest for everything that found no rest. And Michel... Michel acted as if nothing was there. He walked naturally to the corner bar, pouring himself a glass of water with the calm of someone who had done it a thousand times.
— Has it always been like this? — Cauã asked softly, still unable to take his eyes off the figure crawling along the ceiling slats behind the recessed lighting.
Michel looked at him over his shoulder.
— No. It got worse when I came back to Belém. — He took a sip of water, then smiled awkwardly. — It's annoying when I have to relate to someone, sometimes they interfere with my concentration. I wish it would stop, but after years with this... you get used to it.
— It's not just annoying. It's a burden. It drains you. — Cauã looked around, breathing deeply, sensing the slightly metallic and humid smell in the air. — This place is a beacon. A harbor for restless souls.
— And you, even seeing all this, still wanted to come in? — Michel teased, as if trying to lighten the weight of the atmosphere.
— I've seen worse. — he answered seriously. — But if you keep ignoring this, one day they'll want more than just to stay.
Michel looked away.
Cauã knew. Those presences weren't here by chance. Something in that man's soul was a magnet — a crossing point between the world of the living and the dead. And now, he was part of the mystery too.
Still pulsing with energy. Controlled breathing, eyes closed, feet firm on the ground as if connected to something deeper than the cold concrete beneath his boots. And then, silently, he began to push them away. One by one.
Cauã didn't attack them. Didn't shout. He expelled them as one who asks for permission. But with authority. With the weight of someone who carries the blessing and curse of seeing too much. A gift inherited, shaped among healers, dreams, and silences. He cleansed the space like his grandmother did with taperebá leaves burning in a tin. Only now, the temple was an apartment in the Doca, and the spirits were different — older, dirtier from the city, more attached to flesh.
It was a personal favor. He knew that. Michel hadn't even asked. But it was impossible to stay there with all that scratching the walls of the world. The presences resisted but did not fight. They left as if someone had opened a window in a room shut tight for years.
When the last soul was expelled, Cauã lost his balance. An internal blow, as if his own body demanded payment for the effort. He staggered, and Michel hurried to hold him by the shoulders, guiding him to the sofa.
Cauã didn't open his eyes. Not yet. He was between worlds — his eyes now taken by a milky white, pale like river mist. He breathed deeply, and a cold breath escaped his lips, spreading through the room like a chilly wind coming from another time. The shadows had vanished. That invisible density that had suffocated the place now dissipated like old smoke.
He finally opened his eyes and stared into emptiness.
— Ah... — he murmured, with a faltering voice, his body exhausted. — Damn... felt like a spiritual hoarder.
Michel looked around and let out a muffled laugh.
— It's really lighter now. You can even walk without tripping over someone's shadow.
Cauã tried to stand, still dizzy.
— Bet you can't even sleep well, huh?
Michel didn't answer. He didn't need to. The silence, the diverted gaze, everything screamed the truth. Cauã shook his head, like someone who understands more than he wants to.
— Where's the first aid kit?
— In the kitchen. On top of the cupboard.
Cauã staggered toward it. Michel followed him with his eyes, silent. Deep inside his thoughts, a certainty bothered him: for the first time in years, the apartment was quiet. No moans. No murmurs. No eyes in the mirrors or shadows crawling through the cracks.
Cauã thought he had found a lure.
But now he knew: Cauã was a shield. A repellent. A man made of borderlines.
And he didn't want to lose sight of him.