He made his way home in silence, facing the whirlwind of thoughts that returned to the beginning of that day. When he woke up, he seemed to have glimpsed the tropical heat; however, upon being received by that boy, a pretender to anarchy, he understood that in that moment he had been courted by an incarnate ray of sunshine.

  Furthermore, his restless mind persisted with metaphors, comparisons, and personifications, using the most unusual and even sweetest terms he could attribute to someone, yet none of them would truly fit him.

  It was already noon when he arrived. Lunch was the universal vacuum that bordered on infrasound. His brother was still at university, making his presence known and getting to know the environment; he wouldn't return anytime soon.

  His sister was in the same situation, but included in the mass welcome for new students, so she would return around dinnertime. And his parents - Elena was a woman of hobbies and a great example of leadership, probably coordinating while sorting out some bureaucracy, for fun.

  And of course, Alexandru; it was never his style to reveal his steps while executing them. His strategy consisted of crossing the desert and, only after establishing himself, informing them of a possible trip to an arid place.

  He wouldn't even specify where, how, or when. If someone was involved, it would be worse, as there wouldn't even be a warning, just a brief summons with only the essentials. Therefore, if he returned in time for dinner, it was already something to celebrate internally.

  The staff in charge of the kitchen, on the command of Lucian's father, would gradually begin to introduce typical and adapted foods from the country in question, so they could adapt and not suffer in the likely upcoming social gatherings.

  At least, in his intimidating house, he wouldn't suffer so quickly from the new way of living. Despite all that prelude which the soundless absence guarded, the climate was still complex, humid, and warm, contrasting with the house's structure, which, even so, illustrated an almost uncommon chill.

  With nothing to do, in fact, he stayed in his room the entire afternoon, wandering through books he had already read, through thoughts already visited, through tired, recent memories.

  The letter was well hidden, inside a book Mihai had given him; it sounded like an invitation to read it, yet he knew it wasn't the time.

  He felt in his core that it wouldn't be right to consume it so prematurely. He felt that something should happen, and at that moment, he would know it as a sign to fulfill his duty.

  It echoed like a crime, a transgression of the most minor causes, yet it held a certain value. In that house, it was his first time lying and still keeping one.

  His caged heart was rusting with such omission, yet it tended to worsen; his decisions of the day would follow him for long enough as penance for his own actions.

  The nocturnal veil spread like a penumbra, for the sequins of that sky stretched out infinitely beautiful, consequently preventing a painful pitch blackness over the souls repressed in sober, frank bodies subjected to venturesomeness.

  It repeated itself, the events from night to day and vice versa. On Wednesday, he was thrown against everything he awaited. Contrary to the esteem of the previous day, in this contemporary moment, the world fell apart. He had just arrived and was already noticed, strange.

  The open gates called out to the young people and remained so, without any anxiety about keeping them inside the institution, as if there were a kind of mass maneuver, conscious and implicit, which consisted of full trust in the students' virtues.

  There were islands and circles, cliques and circuits, all very social; although similar, they were not equal. Fear rose at the prospect of his proximity to the courtyard, where this pernicious cycle they mutually avoided expanded even further.

  Observing with caution and timidity on that warm morning with a fresh breeze, with the scent of coffee in the air and the drumming on game boards, laughter and varied greetings, accompanied by the superficially fruity environment.

  He dragged himself slowly, noticing faces that stared back at him, complemented by a whisper to the person next to them and a brief wave. If the air was sweet, it became thin and diabetic.

  He crossed the covered part of the patio, coming across the open-air amphitheater; its islands seemed calmer, but it was a disguise. The glances ran wild as if they were bait for something bigger; there was no way out.

  "Good morning, Lucian!" greeted the ray of sunshine who reached his shoulder with a hand. "The principal told me you're in my class, so, as a good representative," he laughed, removing his hand and standing in front of him, "of one week, I'll guide and assist you on your first day of school."

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  A relief, almost wrong, ran up his spine, mentally thanking that the Plate had found him and was willing to help him again. He tried to return the smile, but Miguel was already looking the other way, seeming to invite someone with that expression Lucian still didn't understand well.

  "Well, Lucian, these are my friends," he revealed, pointing to other young people approaching with a crooked laugh. "This here is Jo?o," a boy taller than Miguel, with a tense posture but who seemed calm. "He's my childhood friend, I've known him for ten years."

  "What's up, all good? Welcome, man!" he greets him with a one-armed hug, not mutual. Lucian shrinks and takes a step back, with a forced smile. He thanked him quietly and silently looked for a clock, anywhere. "Alright then. Class starts soon, see ya'."

  He replied, leaving the circle that had formed; there were still five more people, seeming like a children's ring dance. He was still scared; however, if they were with him, he shouldn't fear.

  "Well, Lucian; he's right, we have little time. Here, this is Clara," a short, calm girl, with an exhausted look laden with a sleepless night. "Jazz, I mean, Jasmine," the same height as Lucian, probably a skater.

  "Lorena and Bento, they're from the band too. And Diego," he seemed much more of a punk than Miguel intended to be. "Only he is in the same year as us, but he's from another class."

  Soon, he understood that there, in that group, he was younger than most of Miguel's friends, by only one year. And after pointing and telling him the names, he added:

  "It's just the two of us, Lucian," referring to the last sentence, that only he belonged to his class.

  He felt a slight waver in his tone, leaning towards the sound of the previous day; however, he seemed not to dare as much at first.

  His friends went their own way after an exchange of hurried and abbreviated phrases with the Plate, who smiled softly again at Lucian, who felt a shiver, as if a bullet had grazed him and death had diverted from his path by divine intercession.

  "Let's go, Lucian, we have five minutes before the teachers and the students monopolize you."

  "Thank you for guiding me. And, good morning. How are you?" he said slowly, averting his gaze even from the points he was using to avoid looking at Miguel.

  However, feeling his gaze upon him, he could barely stand it and received his classmate's gentle laugh. Perhaps he had said something with the wrong pronunciation or intonation; his last sentence might not have even sounded like a question, but he didn't have time to repudiate it with another attempt.

  "You're welcome, my dear," he replied, with a bow and extended his hand. "I'm well, and you?"

  "Good for you, I'm good too," he replied, doubtful about his use of words, perceiving immediately from a laugh and an indecipherable look that he had gotten something wrong. He held his hand to conclude the morning greeting, but he held it firmly, pulling him closer.

  "That's good, Lucian. And the weather, is the heat affecting your mental state?" following that previous tone, Lucian averted his gaze with an indignant sigh.

  "No, it's not. Why do you ask?"

  "For no particular reason, you're red. Perhaps you were feverish; it would make sense to confuse 'ser' (to be) and 'estar' (to be - temporary) if you were."

  He was confused, unsure if he was being subtly or blatantly mocked. And he reflected: 'ser' and 'estar' were different. He was well (using 'estar' for state), he wasn't good (using 'ser' for characteristic), however, that wasn't the quality he had applied to his own state. But if that were the case, then who was wrong was him.

  "I sinned by saying I am good, but I am well. However, you told me I was wrong to be good, are you not?"

  His speech, at that moment, didn't need a concise sentence; it only needed the semantics to reach the brain of that intellectualized project and dismantle it in its own stupidity. He tried to fix a sentence and sinned in the correction; certainly, just any idiot, it was no surprise.

  "Ah, what a pity, I thought you were a good person," he laughed softly, with a questionable expression. "But if the heat doesn't affect you and you are well, I believe hell sent the right guy from Europe."

  He didn't understand a single letter more of what he was arguing; how could he respond to something he couldn't even understand? What did it mean to have come from hell?

  Was he, then, an inhabitant of there? And if that was the meaning, he wasn't being nicknamed with pleasant terms. And he saw him laugh again, replying:

  "?i doar glumeam, Lucian. Vii dintr-un loc foarte rece, cu obiceiuri foarte rigide, am f?cut doar o aluzie la faptul c? e?ti diferit. Dac? c?ldura acestei ??ri nu te chinuie, nu oamenii unei lumi noi ??i vor zdruncina credin?a.3"

  That seismic shock repeated a second time, in such a short span of time and physical space; he felt a slight blush reach him. He was still confused, not about the meaning of his sentence, but about the reason for this mind game.

  "Why are you telling me this?" By the strap of his backpack, Miguel held him and began to gently guide him again through the school corridors amid an amused laugh, yet surrounding the concept of a confidant.

  "As I said, it was just a joke. You gave me an opening," he quickly explained what 'giving an opening' meant, "and with your linguistic error and your apprehension with several people having you as the center of attention, I noticed you were holding an Orthodox cross in your pocket."

  By instinct, he gripped the cross again, inhaling deeply the air that seemed much more breathable and comforting than before. A bit of context helped, although he was still dissonant with the purpose. They were facing the door of Teacher Lúcia's classroom, for Literature; one minute remained, but it was well used.

  "I just wanted to distract you, you know," he pointed to the door, with that previous caricatured expression, "it's normal to be afraid of what you don't know, but if you know yourself, that's already a start."

  He opened the door as if he were a ray of sunshine, setting the room on fire as it greeted him with strange salutations; Lúcia had greeted him with a hug.

  What he had said was true; he didn't need to fear everything he didn't know. With his faith in mind, he would be able to face the adversities and adapt to the contrasting world that was this one.