Michel felt the needle piercing his skin, stitch by stitch. It was a sharp pain, but bearable — almost comforting after the tension he'd just endured. Still, his focus wasn't on the physical discomfort, but on the man before him.
Cauã's face held a quiet kind of serenity. Youthful, yet marked by something older. A curious contrast. Michel would've guessed he was no older than twenty-five — perhaps even younger — were it not for the gravity in his eyes and the way silence weighed between his sentences. Everything he did carried purpose, even the way he stitched flesh with the precision of someone familiar with both the pain of the living and the burden of the dead.
His Indigenous features became more distinct under the room's soft, warm light — golden skin, straight dark hair, a subtle earring. Everything about Cauã seemed to carry a story — and Michel wanted to hear it. He wanted to know where he came from, what he did before chasing down hauntings, what made his brow furrow from time to time. But he didn't know how to ask. Not without sounding intrusive. And this wasn't the kind of thing that could be said with grace.
He stayed silent for too long.
— Just ask. — Cauã's voice broke the air, low and almost bored. — You're practically drilling a hole in my head with that stare.
Michel raised an eyebrow, caught in the act. But Cauã didn't meet his gaze. He focused on the last stitches instead. With a quick motion, he cut the thread with the scissors from his kit and examined the work.
— Three stitches in your hand. — he murmured, more to himself than to the other. — No nerve damage. But you'll need antibiotics, anti-inflammatories... and I didn't bring my prescription pad. — He sighed, nearly laughing at the irony. — I expected to deal with the dead tonight. Not a medical emergency in my lap.
Michel gave a small, lopsided smile.
— Well, at least I'm still alive. That's progress.
Cauã looked up slowly, and for a moment, they simply stared at each other. There were no ghosts lingering anymore, yet something still hovered in the air — something Michel couldn't name, and Cauã pretended not to notice.
— Since when? You see... and truly see? — Michel asked at last, his voice lower, almost afraid of the answer.
— Since I was born. — Cauã replied plainly, focusing on the dressing. — My grandmother died the day I was born. They say I inherited her gifts, like I picked up where she left off. She was a midwife, a potter... and she saw what no one else could. My father believes the spirits chose me... like an ancestral homage.
The answer, though brief, carried the weight of generations. Michel listened in silence, feeling the distance between them narrowing — not physically, but in some quiet, unseen place. As if they had crossed into a threshold few ever reached.
— My family's roots run deep in all of this. — Cauã continued. — We've seen entities most think are just old tales. Curupira, Mapinguari... They're real. But not like in the schoolbooks. They have their own logic. They live at the edges.
Michel didn't respond right away. The stories he'd heard as a child returned with new gravity. He didn't know if he believed — or if he simply wanted to believe, after everything he'd felt. Ghosts were one thing. Forest spirits?
— You mentioned you lived in river communities... Why did you come here?
— To investigate a case. — he said, curtly, unwilling to say more. Michel understood that was the boundary. For now.
— You're a doctor, right? — Michel smiled, trying to ease the weight in the air.
— Yes. — Cauã replied as he finished securing the bandage.
The atmosphere felt calmer. The apartment, now free of invisible presences, breathed a kind of relief. Michel, freshly showered, wore a dark silk robe and a pair of slippers that clashed humorously with his otherwise elegant appearance. Cauã, who had also washed up while they waited for the pain to dull, wore a loose gray shirt and shorts cinched tightly at the waist — the improvisation of someone who hadn't planned to sleep there, or perhaps anywhere permanent.
The scent of Michel's soap still clung to his skin, filling the space between them. And for a moment, there were no more questions, no more answers. Just that gentle silence between two worlds — and two men — who still didn't know what they were to each other.
— When you're born in a community, you learn early that you have to give back what you receive — Cauã began, sitting in the armchair after finishing the dressing. His voice was steady, but there was something ancient and quiet in it. — I thought that, as a doctor, I could do that. You have no idea how vulnerable those regions are. Land-grabbers, contaminated water, neglected tropical diseases. Sometimes the public health system doesn't reach those places... so who will?
Michel listened silently. Cauã's tone wasn't one of self-pity. It was pure conviction. A commitment without spotlight.
— Most don't want to go... so why not me? — Cauã went on. — I graduated. I returned. I started treating people, caring for them... And the more I did, the more I realized I could help with the other side too. The unseen. The spiritual. I began investigating the strange cases. Grew to love both things. Healing the body, and quieting the dead. Driving away vampiric spirits. Closing doors that had been left too open. Giving rest. And peace.
The final words hung in the air for a moment. Michel didn't know what to say. He simply watched that man with a quiet reverence, as if witnessing something rare.
— I've been living in Belém for about four years — Cauã added, adjusting the loose collar of his shirt. — But I still travel whenever I can. To treat patients... or to settle things on the other side.
Michel let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly as he settled more comfortably into the couch.
— Incredible. I only deal with paperwork, court battles, and the occasional ghost that insists on following me around. I already think that's enough to ruin any social life. And you still juggle two lives... I'm guessing you don't have a girlfriend.
His tone was playful, but something in his eyes watched closely for Cauã's reaction — as if that detail held more than he was willing to ask outright.
— Ah. — Cauã replied without emotion, as if it were just another question. — I'm not exactly great with people, in general. Having relationships at that level is... difficult. I won't say I haven't tried before — he shrugged — men, women... both can be complicated.
Bingo. Michel held back a satisfied smile. He'd been trying to read Cauã since the very beginning, and now he had a crucial piece. The simple way he spoke about himself made it clear: labels didn't matter much to him. More than that, he was likely at peace with who he was. If it were something hidden, he wouldn't have dropped it so casually in the middle of the night, in the home of someone nearly a stranger. Michel felt a subtle tug — admiration, maybe? Or envy. His own story hadn't been so easy to tell.
— I get it. I'm single too. — he said, half casual, half teasing.
— With that many ghosts around, I'm not surprised. — Cauã grimaced, genuinely, without realizing he might've sounded rude.
But Michel laughed — truly laughed. It was rare for someone to speak to him like that, without measuring words, without fear.
— Could you help me with that? — he asked then, giving a more direct glance, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
— Help you get a girlfriend? — Cauã raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused.
— What? No! With the spirits. — Michel made an exaggerated gesture. — And, by the way, I prefer B-O-Y-F-R-I-E-N-D. — he spelled it out, almost like a teenage dare.
But the revelation didn't even earn a blink from Cauã, who just nodded as if receiving any other piece of information.
— Got it. I'll see what I can do. — he replied naturally, yawning right after and reclining on the sofa.
Michel watched him a moment longer than he should have. And, for the first time in what felt like ages, he believed he might sleep in peace that night.
He woke early, even though it was Sunday. Strangely, he had slept through the entire night — no scratching sounds on the walls, no ghostly whispers, no invisible hands reaching for him. Only silence. The closest thing to peace he'd known in years. He sat slowly on the edge of the bed, as if his body still didn't quite believe in that relief.
The room reflected Michel's restrained and methodical nature: elegant, but functional. Graphite-toned walls softened the light, while dark wooden furniture, minimalist with metallic accents, filled the space. A built-in closet stood neatly organized. The bed, with linen sheets and a navy-blue throw folded at its foot, added to the sense of order. A wide mirror beside the dresser reflected the dim ambiance. The only out-of-place detail was a reading chair near the window, covered with stacked books and a week-old, forgotten cup of tea.
He walked barefoot to the windows and pulled the curtains open. Pale morning light crept in like mist, revealing the view of the Doca. He'd never found it beautiful. An open canal carved through the landscape, its murky waters reflecting a sky forever undecided. The irony made him frown: here, in the so-called "noble area" of the city, the filth of the wealthy flowed like dirty secrets exposed beneath smoked glass windows. A forced beauty built over veiled sewage.
Michel took a deep breath. There was no odor that morning.
Maybe he had truly slept well. And perhaps Cauã's presence — that distant, necessary stranger — had something to do with it.
He found him curled up on the couch, sleeping like a rolled-up armadillo. Only his face peeked out from beneath the blanket, partially lit by the soft morning glow. His chest rose and fell in a calm rhythm, and a faint snore escaped his slightly parted lips, giving the scene a quiet, almost domestic air. For a moment, Michel simply watched — this unusual figure who had arrived the night before like a whirlwind, clearing out spirits and upending his routine... and now slept as if the apartment had always been his refuge.
He didn't have the heart to wake him. Let him sleep a little longer, he thought, a quiet smile playing on his lips. He noticed Cauã's phone vibrating on the coffee table, its screen lighting up with a notification — nothing urgent, from the look of it. He let it be.
He made his way to the kitchen and, in a rare gesture, began preparing breakfast. He sifted the coffee grounds slowly, boiled the water, cut fruit, and dropped slices of bread into the toaster — all with the quiet care of someone trying to impress without admitting it. In a way, it was a gesture of gratitude — for the stitches, for the silent night, for the spirits no longer lingering.
Michel was in a good mood, lighter than he had felt in a long time. He silently admitted it to himself: he wanted to grow closer to Cauã. But he had no idea how. Being subtle didn't seem to work — the doctor appeared immune to hints. His responses were direct, his sincerity almost blunt, disarming any rehearsed charm.
It was curious. Even funny. Michel, who was used to controlling courtrooms with sharp words, now found himself disarmed by someone who simply... said what he thought. No games, no detours. And that — more than anything — stirred something in him. Maybe, just maybe, it was exactly what he needed.
Cauã opened his eyes slowly, drawing in a deep breath as the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee pulled him back into the world more efficiently than any alarm clock. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that his last meal had been at seven the previous evening.
He unwound himself from the cocoon of blankets with practiced motion, muscles still heavy from the long night. As he rose, he noticed Michel in the kitchen, calmly setting the table — a contrast to his own drowsy state. He walked over with the languor of someone still gathering their senses. His morning greeting was little more than a grumble, not out of rudeness, but because morning etiquette demanded more energy than he currently had.
— There's jambu jelly and bacuri cake. Bought them yesterday. — Michel said casually, his eyes catching on the disheveled state of Cauã's hair — the soft mess of curls falling over the shaved side in charming chaos.
Cauã only nodded with a soft "hn", brief but honest. He sat and began to serve himself, clearly curious about the jelly. The sweet taste and faint tingling on his tongue pleased him. He closed his eyes for a second, savoring the experience with silent appreciation.
If there was something he truly valued, it was food. Good food. Belém was, without a doubt, the gastronomic heart of Brazil, and Cauã made a point to explore its flavors whenever he could. Part of what he earned went back to his community and family — the rest? Spent on good meals.
— It's good... — he said after swallowing the first bite, not inviting conversation, but genuinely satisfied.
— Great. — Michel replied, smiling at the sight of the other man eating with such focus. Sharing breakfast with someone, after so many restless nights, felt like a small luxury.
— What are we doing today? — Michel asked, though he already had a good guess. They needed to return to the Santa Casa de Misericórdia.
— We'll go to the deactivated wing, grab your folder... and then bring peace to the woman before it's too late. — Cauã answered plainly, his voice still gravelly with morning weight. He spoke slowly, attentive to his food, but with clarity. — Some spirits cling so tightly to their obsessions that they stop being people. If that happens... there's no helping them anymore. Only putting an end to it. I want to avoid that. I think I can still help her cross.
Michel listened in silence. The way Cauã talked about death intrigued him — not out of coldness, but with precision.
— But first I need to stop at home. There are some things I'll need. Meet me there. — He looked up briefly, just enough.
— Got it. — Michel didn't hide that he wished they could stretch the moment longer, but he knew — you couldn't force anything with someone like Cauã.
— And don't show up dressed like that... — Cauã gave him a once-over, not mocking, just stating the obvious. — Wear something more discreet. We're sneaking into an abandoned hospital, not attending a gala.
Michel gave a soft laugh. Even Cauã's scoldings sounded more charming than annoying.
They met again before the rusted gates of the Santa Casa, just after midnight. The silence around them was broken only by a distant car or the wind brushing through the trees. The abandoned building seemed to breathe with the dark.
They exchanged numbers on their phones, finally ready to finish what had begun.
Michel showed up in a dark designer hoodie — discreet, but polished enough to catch an attentive eye. At least Cauã's. The outfit fit him perfectly, elegant even in attempted understatement. And, though he didn't want to dwell on such thoughts, Cauã had to admit to himself: Michel was handsome. The kind of handsome that didn't need effort to be noticed.
Cauã let out a soft sigh and waved his hand gently, brushing away a few persistent spirits that had followed him since he left home.
— What? — Michel raised an eyebrow. — It's the most discreet thing I own. Unless you wanted me dressed like a ninja?
Cauã frowned, genuinely puzzled.
— A ninja? That would draw attention. Imagine someone walking around in all black at night...
Michel chuckled, truly amused. There was something endearing about how literally Cauã took everything — as if words still meant exactly what they were supposed to mean.
— You're impossible.
Cauã didn't respond. He simply turned back to face the building. The gates creaked open under their push, and the wind whispered something neither of them dared interpret.
— Let's go. — he said. — It's more restless tonight than usual.
The rusted gates of the Santa Casa groaned like a warning as they stepped inside — as if the place itself protested their presence. The tall grass whispered in the breeze, and every step on the cracked floor echoed with eerie weight, as though the building exhaled pain.
Cauã's flashlight sliced through the dark, revealing peeling walls, dangling wires, old graffiti. In some spots, the paint seemed to form faces. Or maybe it was just the shadows playing.
They walked side by side. Michel held his composure, but his eyes scanned the space with quiet caution. Cauã's expression remained unreadable, but the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed his constant vigilance — as if he could feel the world of the dead trying to seep into his skin.
— You hear that? — Michel whispered.
Cauã nodded, still walking. Voices. Wails. Faraway and thin, like echoes from deep wells. Then came a childlike chant, followed by dragging steps behind them — steps that halted whenever one of them turned around.
— Don't look back. That's what they want — to see fear. — Cauã's voice was low and firm, a mantra he must have learned young.
The corridor stretched longer than it should have, the air growing heavier. Broken light fixtures swung like lifeless eyes, and shadows moved far too freely for an abandoned place.
Michel felt something cold graze his fingers. He didn't comment. He just gripped his own wrist and kept walking.
Cauã stayed slightly ahead, his presence somehow pushing back the worst of it — though not all. Shapes clung to the ceiling. Children peered through cracks. A muffled sob echoed behind boarded doors.
— We're close. — Cauã stopped abruptly before what once had been the pediatric ward. The air there felt thicker. Saturated in sorrow. She was still here, he thought. Waiting.
Michel swallowed hard. Fear crawled down his spine — but he wouldn't turn back. Not now.
— Let's end this.
Cauã nodded. The flashlight flickered.
And then the door creaked open by itself, groaning like a whisper from the dead.
The silence shattered with the sharp metallic hiss of a blade cutting the air. The woman lunged forward, her steps fast and decisive, her eyes gleaming with a dark fury, the knife catching the faint beam of light.
Michel froze — heart pounding — as Cauã moved instinctively, brushing away the spirits that rushed to feed on the chaos, while also preparing himself to act.
— You're going to die tonight.
The smell of mold, the echoes of distant steps, the steady hiss of unseen voices — it all thickened around them like a noose. Darkness swallowed the hall. And at the center of it all, the woman — not quite alive, not yet lost — moved with the intent to kill.