Loura was born on a rainy morning in a town that rarely noticed things unless they were loud.
Her house stood at the edge of a narrow street, paint peeling, windows always half-open to let the heat escape.
It was not a sad place, but it was not warm either. It was simply where she existed.
Growing up, Loura learned that silence was safer than speaking.
At home, conversations were brief and practical.
At school, voices overlapped until hers disappeared completely.
She was not ignored on purpose.
She was simply easy to overlook.
As a child, she often wondered if something was wrong with her.
She watched other kids laugh freely, run without hesitation, speak without fear.
When she tried to do the same, it felt forced, like she was copying something she did not fully understand.
She began to believe she was born unlucky. Not cursed, not broken.
Just placed slightly out of alignment with the world.
At night, she stared at the ceiling and counted the cracks, imagining they were maps to somewhere else.
Somewhere kinder.