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... Not a bird, not a breeze. Just the slow hum of the city beyond the hotel window, distant and unreachable. Thiago sat cross-legged on the floor, his back against the door, a phone pressed to his ear.

"Clara’s waiting," his mother said gently. "She’s set the living room up like a stadium. Little paper banners. Your name on everything."

"Did she leave room for João?"

"She tore his name off after that penalty he missed last year."

Thiago laughed—genuine, soft.

...

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