Mateus Carvalho died on a Tuesday.
Not a dramatic Tuesday. Not the kind with storms or omens or a red sky at morning. It was the dull, flat kind — overcast in Braga, smelling like rain that hadn't decided yet, the sort of afternoon that makes you feel like the world has already moved on without telling you.
He was twenty-three. He had thirty-eight euros in his account, a half-finished engineering degree, and a mother who called every Sunday even when he didn't pick up. He had a habit of reading until 2 a.m. and a bad knee from a football accident in secondary school. He liked his coffee with too much sugar. He argued with strangers online about things that didn't matter and stayed quiet about the things that did.
He wasn't important. He knew that. Most people aren't, and the ones who pretend otherwise are usually the most afraid of it.
He was crossing Rua do Souto when he heard the tires.
He turned.
He had exactly enough time to think that's fast before the car hit him.
After that: nothing.
Not darkness — darkness is still something. Not silence — silence has texture if you listen hard enough. What came after the car was nothing, the real kind, the kind that makes you understand why people are afraid of it their whole lives without ever being able to explain why.
Then, somewhere in the nothing, a light.
Not warm. Not inviting. Just present — the way a door is present, neutral about whether you walk through it.
He walked through it.