Until the Cleaner’s Little Daughter Did the Impossible.**
For seven years, every single night of Eduardo Monteiro’s life looked exactly the same.
He woke at six sharp—not out of desire, but because his body had memorized survival like muscle memory. His hand reached exactly forty-two centimeters to the right, found the alarm clock, shut it off, and welcomed the same thick silence that had lived with him since the accident.
Bare feet on cold marble.
Twelve steps to the bathroom.
Left turn.
Three steps to the sink.
No guessing.
No improvising.
Because when you can’t see, chaos isn’t an inconvenience—
it’s danger.
His shower routine was a surgeon’s choreography: soap in the same corner, towel on the third chrome bar. He dressed alone: navy dress shirt, tailored trousers, English shoes worth a small fortune.
Elegance meant for no one.
Perfection seen by no one.
Twenty-three steps down the stairs—never more, never less. At the bottom, Augusto the butler greeted him like every day.
—“Good morning, Dr. Eduardo.”
—“Good morning,” he’d answer, polite and empty.
Breakfast looked like it awaited important guests: fresh bread, black coffee, orange juice, butter, everything aligned with mathematical precision. But Eduardo ate alone, listening only to his own breathing echo across a mansion that felt more like a mausoleum.
By 7:30 he was at his desk.
Computer on.
Robotic voice reading emails, contracts, production numbers.
Eduardo ran a textile empire without ever seeing a single fabric.
He typed faster than people with sight, made cold decisions, generated wealth he had no one to share with.
At noon, he lunched alone.
At seven, the moment he dreaded arrived:
Dinner.
The main table seated sixteen.
For seven long years, only one chair had been used: his.
At the far opposite end—eight meters away—the other chair sat empty like an open wound no one dared mention.
But then, one ordinary night, just as he lifted his fork, he heard it:
Tiny footsteps on marble.
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