I rested my forehead against the cool aeroplane window, watching the clouds smear into soft streaks below. The stillness didn't feel luxurious. It felt distant — distant from the life waiting for me in Brazil, from my children, from everything familiar. First class wasn't a dream. It was a pause. A strange quiet in a life that had rarely known silence.
Through the window, the Atlantic stretched beneath us. I had crossed it before — not like this. Now I sat in a seat worth more than my first month's rent, eating food arranged like art, and all I could think about was whether my sons had eaten properly without me.
Timotee sat beside me, already belonging to a world I still observed from the outside. The champagne, the soft blanket folded neatly at his side, the quiet footsteps of the attendants — none of it touched me. My thoughts were thousands of miles away, in a small home where little faces waited.
"You're safe now," he said, gently touching the armrest between us. "You don't need to look back anymore."
I nodded without replying. Safety wasn't measured in altitude or comfort. Safety was my boys sleeping peacefully. Safety was my mother's voice steady instead of strained. Safety was knowing my family wasn't counting the hours until my return.
Eight suitcases sat below us in the cargo hold. Not symbols of wealth — symbols of care. Clothes my children needed. Gifts I had chosen slowly, piece by piece. Small acts of love I had packed into heavy bags.
"I'll take care of them," Timotee said. "Your family will have a better life. A real one."
I offered a small, polite smile. I wanted to believe him, but I couldn't build trust on promises. Life had taught me to believe in what I could touch, not what I was told.
"I hope they like you," I said softly.
"They will," he answered quickly, though his eyes never lifted from his phone.
As the plane descended toward São Paulo, something changed in him. His jaw tightened. His shoulders rose. The relaxed charm he carried in Europe vanished.
"What happened?" I asked quietly.
"A number I don't trust," he muttered.
I watched him without making it obvious. He stared at the screen of his phone the way people stare at things that frighten them — focused, still, as if moving might make it worse. His thumb hovered over the screen for just a moment before he acted.
Without hesitating, he removed the SIM card, snapped it cleanly, and slid the pieces into his pocket. I watched him — not in fear, but in recognition. I knew tension. I knew when someone was bracing against an unseen threat.
"Is someone after you?" I whispered.
He forced a smile. "No. Just precautions."
But his eyes kept moving — scanning, tracking, never resting.
When we landed, the heat of São Paulo washed over me like a memory I had been starving for. The noise, the smell, the humidity — all of it familiar, grounding. My heart raced with anticipation. I was close. So close.
We moved through the crowd, and suddenly a man brushed hard against my shoulder, sending me off balance. Timotee pulled me close, his grip tightening instantly.
"What was that?" I gasped.
"Nothing," he said, too sharply. "Keep moving."