Someone sighed impatiently. “How funny!” Cayo said sarcastically. “A street philosopher.” What Cayo didn’t know was that the scene was being watched. [In my 19th year, I was silent, referring to someone who had suffered much humiliation in life, but who couldn’t get used to any of it.]
In a smaller room upstairs, the company’s founder, Augusto Nogueira, sat in front of a panel of monitors. His white hair was neatly combed. He wore glasses perched on the tip of his nose, and a cane rested on the desk.
Since his health began to decline, he was removed from the company’s day-to-day operations for his own good. They said he was tired, that it was time to let the new generation take over.
When the image of the room showed the skinny boy in flip-flops holding the envelope, he leaned forward, turned up the volume, saw Cayo laugh, saw the others look away.
He also saw the logo in the corner of the envelope. He recognized that type of paper, he recognized the shape, and most importantly, he recognized the printed signature that appeared on one of the edges when Cayo turned it on its side.
She hadn’t been able to read the contents yet, but it was enough to send a shiver down her spine. At that moment, she understood two things. That envelope wasn’t just a piece of paper, and that boy couldn’t simply be thrown away like trash.
He pressed the intercom button that connected him directly to his personal assistant’s desk. “Call Cayo now,” he said, his voice firmer than it had been in months, “and ask him to bring the envelope and the child.”
On the other side, in the meeting room, the phone rang again. Caio answered, listened to the message, and for a second he was breathless. “Mr. Augusto wants to see the child?” he repeated incredulously.
The laughter in the room stopped. Kayo tried to hide her discomfort. “Okay?” She cleared her throat and turned to the security guard. “Take him upstairs.” And she took a deep breath. “The envelope too.”
Mr. Augusto wants to see him. Raby didn’t understand who this Mr. Augusto was. When the door to Augusto’s room opened, Raby smelled a mixture of medicine and stale coffee.
The old man was sitting in a leather armchair. “Accate, son,” the old man said in a tone more befitting a neighborhood grandfather than a tycoon. “What’s your name, Raby?” he replied, almost whispering.
“Rab,” Augusto repeated, as if recalling an important name. “I was told you found something of ours in the trash and returned it.” He extended his trembling hand. The security guard left the envelope there.
Kayo leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, trying to appear calm. Inside, a storm was raging. It must just be a role reversal. Augusto hastened to repeat old things.
The legal department had probably already dismissed it. The old man didn’t reply, put on his glasses, and carefully opened the envelope. Raby didn’t understand any of the lines filled with difficult words, but she noticed that Augusto’s face changed as he read.
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