Her name is Sophie.
She lives in one of the many buildings on Augusta Street since she was 17, when she started working there.
Leaning on one of the books she has never read, from the window of her apartment she usually sees how busy is the life in Sao Paulo: the time that runs in a hurry, the drizzle that always falls, freedom of expression, the lack of trees.
She always remembers what her dad once said, that buildings are like several drawers of apartments, piled up, and inside each one of them there is a family and a routine going on, and that he had no desire to be part of another cliché.
With people coming and going, it seems it was more convenient for her to set her heart aside in a bottle and replace it with a door that matched the window.
Smoking relieves a little her anxiety and
sometimes through all that gray, she can still see the stars.