Quixotina, who was near Carlos, heard him mention the name of the sweets, one of them being beijinho.

  "Beijinho?" she repeated, turning with the pitcher in her hand, a genuine expression of perplexity on her face. "What kind of name is that for a sweet? It sounds so… intimate. Almost sinful."

  Carlos didn't miss the chance. A mischievous smile appeared on his lips.

  "Sinful, Quixotina?" he approached, picking up one of the little white sweets rolled in grated coconut. "It's just a name. A simple sweet, made of condensed milk, coconut… a coconut kiss, get it?" He brought the sweet to his mouth and exaggeratedly savored it, closing his eyes. "Mmm! Delicious. Want to try? It could be your first… beijinho (kiss)."

  The double entendre was so clumsy and obvious that even Pedro, across the room, choked on his juice. Quixotina froze for a second, her face flooded with a blush that went from her neck to the roots of her hair. She looked at the sweet in Carlos's hand, then at his sarcastic face, and then at the people around, some already beginning to smile.

  "Carlos!" she exclaimed, her voice a mix of embarrassment and chivalrous fury. "That is not proper! And in front of my daughter!"

  "What's wrong, Mom?" Dulcinéia asked, innocent, her mouth full of brigadeiro. "It's just a little sweet."

  "It's… it's the name that's inappropriate!" Quixotina insisted, seeking support with her eyes. Aqua laughed under her breath in her corner.

  "Let him be, Quixotina," said Pedro, approaching with a smile. "The President is just trying to be funny. And it seems he succeeded. Here, try one of these pastries, Aunt Vera put her heart into them."

  The comic tension dissipated into laughter, and Quixotina, still flushed, accepted the pastry from Pedro with a final warning look at Carlos, who just laughed, in good spirits.

  The party flowed. The children, led by Dulcinéia and Carlinha, played in a corner. The adults talked, ate the hot, crunchy snacks and the sweets that were an absolute novelty to almost everyone. Carlos circulated, feeling a simple, rare happiness. At one point, he approached the balcony, where Silvana and Silvestre still seemed a bit on the margins.

  "Everything alright over here?" he asked quietly. "The food is good, right?"

  Silvestre nodded, serious. "Yes, President. Very good. Thank you for… including us."

  "Of course. Quixotina wanted you here," Carlos said honestly. His gaze then settled on Silvana, who was staring at the floor. The furry wolf ears, of a deep, velvety black, trembled slightly with each louder laugh from the room. It was a detail that, in any other context, might seem scary, but on that young, timid face, and with that tail that curled up nervously behind her, it had something… undeniably cute. Without thinking much, driven by genuine curiosity and a friendly impulse, Carlos reached out and gently touched the tip of one of Silvana's ears.

  The reaction was instant. The ear contracted like a sensitive muscle, and Silvana jumped back, a small, surprised whimper escaping her throat. Her amber-yellow eyes widened, not with fear, but with a deep startle.

  "Hey!" Silvestre immediately interposed, placing himself between Carlos and his sister, his previously neutral face now closed in a protective and slightly hostile expression. "Don't touch her."

  Carlos pulled his hand back, surprised by the intensity of the reaction. "Sorry! Sorry, I… it wasn't malice. I just think it's so… cute. Really sorry, Silvana."

  Silvana, hidden behind her brother, shook her head quickly, her eyes now downcast again. "It's… it's okay," she whispered, almost inaudible.

  Carlos felt a weight of guilt. Idiot, he thought. She's not a pet. Must be super sensitive, and after all she's been through… "Really, my apologies," he said directly to Silvestre. "That was thoughtless of me."

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Silvestre observed him for a second, seeming to measure his sincerity. Then, he nodded once, the hostility diminishing, but the protective stance remaining. "She's afraid… people have tried to rip off her ears and her tail by force…"

  "Understood. It won't happen again," Carlos assured, making a peace gesture with his hands before moving away, leaving the two siblings in their bubble of tranquility at the edge of the party.

  The highlight of the night, of course, were the presents. Quixotina called Dulcinéia to the center of the room. With hands slightly trembling with emotion, she presented her gift: a small carved wooden box. Inside, on a piece of blue velvet, was a necklace. The chain was thin, of beaten gold – real gold – and on the pendant, expertly set, was a small gem of a vivid, deep red, which seemed to suck in the ambient light and return it in a soft inner glow.

  "It's the Gem of Strength, my daughter," Quixotina explained, her voice choked. "Starting today, I'll teach you to channel magic. I have a necklace just like it. Remember, if you ever encounter a monster, you must use everything I teach you to escape it."

  Dulcinéia was speechless, touching the gem with the tip of her finger, feeling its slightly warm surface. "Mama… it's beautiful. Thank you."

  Then, it was Carlos's turn. He didn't bring a box, but a simple leather folder. "My present is a little different," he said, sitting next to Dulcinéia on the sofa. "I… really like to draw. I always have. In my old world, I even thought about trying to make a living from it, but it's very difficult, you know? People don't value it much, you can't sustain a life. I ended up choosing engineering. But here…" he opened the folder, "here I can draw for the people who matter."

  Inside, there weren't loose papers, but several sheets carefully bound with a wire spiral, forming small handmade books. He handed the first one to Dulcinéia.

  "They're stories. Stories from my world, and one… special one."

  Dulcinéia opened the first one. On the pages, in precise ink strokes with touches of color made from vegetable dyes, she saw a girl with huge hair, a buck-toothed boy, a chubby boy, and a dog. "A Turma da M?nica" was written on the cover. She flipped through it, her eyes shining with the funny, colorful scenes.

  The second book showed a princess with blond hair and a blue ice dress, "Frozen." The third, a young woman in a ragged dress and a pumpkin that turned into a carriage, "Cinderella."

  "Are they princesses?" Dulcinéia asked, fascinated.

  "They are girls who face challenges, each in her own way," explained Carlos. "The ice one fights fear with her sister's help. The pumpkin one… well, she believes in dreams even when all seems lost."

  He then picked up the last book, a little thicker. The cover was simpler, with no colorful title. "And this one… this one is different. It's the story of a true knight. The story of your mother."

  Quixotina, who was watching everything beside them, went still. Her eyes fixed on the book in her daughter's hands.

  Dulcinéia opened it with a different reverence. The first pages showed a small, sad girl in a huge castle. Others showed a kind man giving her a wooden sword. There was a scene of a carriage, a coarse man, and then… a woman in a white dress, stained with red, but standing, holding a luminous sword. The art was more somber, the lines more loaded with emotion than color. In the end, there was a drawing of Dulcinéia herself, holding hands with her mother, both smiling, with the Quilombo in the background.

  "Is this your story, Mama?" Dulcinéia asked, her voice a whisper.

  Quixotina nodded, unable to speak for a moment. A stubborn tear escaped her eye and ran down her cheek. "It's… a little of it. Your Uncle Carlos's version."

  "It's beautiful," said Dulcinéia, closing the book and hugging it to her chest. She then turned and hugged Carlos tightly. "Thank you, Uncle Carlos. It's the best present in the world."

  Carlos returned the hug, moved. "You're welcome, sweetheart. You're welcome."

  The rest of the night passed in a warm, cozy atmosphere. The children, full of sweets, began to grow sleepy. The adults talked in low voices. In a quiet moment, Quixotina, leaning against the balcony door looking at the party inside, felt a wave of gratitude so strong it almost suffocated her. She had a home. She had true friends – Aqua, who had taken her in; Fernanda, with whom she shared the daily struggles and whose daughters had become close friends; Pedro, whom she wasn't that close to yet but respected for how he fought, plus Zézinho was a great friend of Dulcinéia's; even Aunt Vera, with her quiet wisdom. She had her daughter, safe and loved. She had a place.

  But, deep in her chest, where the oldest and sweetest memories were kept, a pang of longing, sharp as a needle, struck her. She looked up at the starry sky through the balcony glass, unconsciously seeking a constellation her Uncle Frederico had taught her to find, light-years and an ocean away.

  "Thank you, Uncle," she thought, directing the thought into the nocturnal void. "Thank you for giving me the book. For giving me courage. I found my place. And I still dream."

  Inside, Carlos picked up another golden, crunchy little pastry, observing the scene. The fatigue of the day was still there, the worries about the Church and the war still looming on the horizon. But that moment, that smell of home-cooked food, the sound of low laughter, the sight of Dulcinéia falling asleep in her mother's lap with the storybook on her chest… all of that was a powerful reminder. It was for this that he fought. For evenings like this. For smiles like those. For a place where they could be free.

  He bit into the pastry, feeling the warm, comforting flavor of the seasoned ground beef. It was good. Everything was alright. At least for that night.