When the wake finally drew to a close, the room did not empty all at once. People lingered, reluctant to step back into a world that now felt altered. Outside, life waited with its usual demands, indifferent and persistent, but inside the City Council hall, time had slowed, stretched thin by sorrow. The father remained surrounded, supported not by solutions but by solidarity. No one pretended that tomorrow would be easier, or that answers would come quickly. What they offered instead was continuity: a promise to remember names, to speak them aloud, to ensure that Helena, João Lúcio, José Augusto, and Drielle would not fade into silence. In that promise, there was a fragile but genuine sense of purpose. Tragedy had arrived without warning, but meaning could still be shaped in its aftermath. Sidrolândia carried that understanding with them as they left, each person holding the weight differently, yet bound by a shared commitment. Every goodbye, they now knew, must be treated as if it could unexpectedly be the last. And every life, no matter how briefly it passes through the world, leaves an imprint worth guarding with care.
