Luísa's Journal
August 21, 1871

The sea took Paraty's history but not its determination. I watch our rebuilt town from its edge, salty wind in my hair, as dawn breaks. The dormitory is alive again - João teaches Tiago to carve wooden boats while Gregório shows fishermen how to fix nets. My mother's cookbook sits on her desk, sun-warmed pages now guiding our kitchen. Life continues, but Onwuka's absence remains a wound that won't heal.

Paraty rebuilt itself piece by piece. Our town mixes old and new - ancient streets repaired with timber from relief ships, the dormitory serving as our center. The convent hill stands with its bell tower watching over the new docks, reminding us of what we lost. The calm ocean hides its truth and the bodies it claimed, including my mother, who once ran the dormitory and cooked for everyone. Though gone, she remains in the smell of roasting cassava and the rich broth cooking on our fires. She lives in me, and I belong to Paraty through family, grief, and responsibility.

We continue rebuilding. Ricardo and I lead the work with sore hands from construction and planning Paraty's future. The docks now reach further into the water. A school replaces the old tavern, built on a strong foundation. I walk through its unfinished rooms, imagining blackboards, desks, and bookshelves filled with salvaged books. In the yard, João practices math, his voice carrying like Onwuka's lessons once did under the tamarind tree. I hear him everywhere - in turning pages, in children's paper boats, in quiet moments when I still expect to hear him speak.

Onwuka saved us with his warnings and belief in a place not his own. Paraty exists because of him, and I feel him in every creaking board and sea breeze. I loved him and still do, not with longing but with something deeper. He changed me like a tide reshapes the shore, leaving me to navigate a different landscape without him.

Maria stays, caring for António's injuries, her once-loud laughter now quiet with regret. She wears her wedding ring, shining despite her dull eyes, as if the metal remembers its purpose better than she does. Sometimes I see her at the docks, watching where the ship disappeared. The evening she ran calling his name, I found her there sobbing words I couldn't understand. I comforted her, told her that lost love doesn't always return as we hope. Yet she walks through town carrying a burden that never lightens.

The sea still calls.

I dream of Onwuka's voice through the waves, his hands pulling me from floods. But it's only a dream. Paraty stands because of him, but I'll never know if he reached Onitsha, if the sea carried him home or swallowed him. He used to say, "When the water calls, don't answer." But Onwuka did. And when it called again, it kept him.

The school grows brick by brick, walls strong against the morning wind. João's laughter - the sound of new, unbroken life - fills the air. I turn from the sea, holding my mother's book, and walk toward them. The past isn't a burden but a memory to keep. Though Onwuka is gone, his influence remains in Paraty's breath, the waves, and voices still saying his name.

I whisper, "When the water took you, it gave us your story."

That's how I'll remember him, not as a ghost, but as what endures.

T. H. E.   E. N. D.